You See Bi/Bi, and We Say Hello

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Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in’s Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

* * * * * * *

I don’t actually know if I love my boyfriend.

I certainly love him when he’s fucking me, and he does fuck me a lot. When he’s not, though, I feel more like his roommate and his friend. Outside of the fucking, I only feel like his submissive femboy lover when we head out together to a club or a party — and, to be honest, he doesn’t make a big deal of it even then. I love feeling outed, though. I love feeling exposed. Everyone’s looking at us, and they know: I wear the panties. I take the cock. I’m the bitch.

We live in a pretty chill college town right now. Not many people around here are surprised by our relationship, let alone disgusted by it. It’s still taboo enough to intrigue and excite them, though. I like the idea that people see us, and immediately start thinking about our sex lives. A lot of queer people hate that, but it turns me on. I like it the best when those knowing looks and surreptitious glances carry a hint of envy. Does that petite girl envy my boyfriend? Does that three-hundred-pound linebacker envy me? It’s all so very exciting and affirming.

It’s when we’re home together, otherwise alone, and not fucking that things get weird. I just can’t describe what’s missing, or what’s wrong. I don’t even know if anything is.

I love Grant’s body. I love his cock. I love being the beta to his alpha, even though that kind of dirty talk does absolutely nothing for him. When he’s fucking me in my throat or in my boi-hole, I feel completely owned. I feel like my cock could shrink all the way down into a tiny little clitty, and I could grow titties for real. I want him to breed me. I want to live off of his cum. I want to cum hands-free — which I can, and do — because that’s the ultimate expression of his dominance and my submission, and of his masculinity and my femininity.

Grant’s cock makes me feel like a girl and a beta boi all at the same time, and I love it. I feel like he’s fuck-milking my inferior semen right out of the gene pool, totally destroying my masculinity, and then dragging me right back into it when he gets my boi-hole pregnant. It’s the full ride for me. It’s the total mindfuck.

We’re not the usual storybook — or stroke story — couple. Maybe that’s it? I’m white, but Grant is too. He should be black, right? My cock should be tiny, and in a cage. Instead, it’s free, and it can swell to just over seven inches. Not only that, but it’s almost as thick as his. I should be collared and plugged, but I’m not. My boi-hole’s been fucked so well and so often that I don’t even need a plug to stay ready back there, but it’s the principle, you know? That’s why I don’t wear one very often. I want Grant to make me wear it — but I want him to want to make me wear it. That’s from a movie, right? ‘I want you to want to do the dishes.’

It just goes on and on like that. Why hasn’t he had me pierced or tattooed? Why isn’t he more interested in my feminization? He made the choice to date a femboy, not just a regular gay guy. That means something, doesn’t it? He should be making me dress up in stupid outfits. He should want to own me. He should want to show everyone else that he owns me.

I suppose I could take his nonchalance as a compliment. I could chalk it up to the fact that I’m feminine enough without trying too hard. I’m a little on the tall side, but I’ve got a naturally feminine frame. I don’t know if I could pass, but then again, I’ve never really tried. That’s not to say I don’t put in some effort. My eyebrows are sculpted, and I keep my body bare and smooth below them. I dye my feathered, bedhead-pixie cut all manner of cute, femboy colors. Right now, it’s beyond-platinum. A few months ago, it was a light, metallic blue. Grant’s not stupid enough to let the changes go by without a few compliments, but that’s not the same as really participating. It’s not the same as really wanting it.

I don’t even have a girly pet name, let alone a girl’s name or a pet’s name.

Is that what’s missing? Do I need an alpha who’s just more into the clichés? Or would that just mean I’ve been claimed by a less secure man?

Then we fuck, and everything is right with the world.

I’m naked except for my panties, flat on my back, and Grant’s turned my mouth into a second boi-hole to be used for his pleasure. His thick, eight-inch cock is straight-up fucking my throat. I’m in heaven. He’s a man; he’s an alpha; he’s claiming and conquering me. His smells and his taste have turned me into that wonderful beta-girl combo again. Feeling his tall, lean, muscular body so close to mine, pistoning his cock past my tongue and tonsils, overwhelms me in every sense of the word. My emotions alone have taken me to the edge of orgasm. Grant leans over and yanks my panties Maltepe Escort to one side. My half-hard cock springs out and bounces against my smooth pelvis. I grasp his hips to keep us stable and in rhythm. He keeps throat-fucking me, even with both of his hands occupied.

Grant penetrates my true boi-hole with a thick, spit-soaked finger. He grabs my throbbing dick and gives me a rapid, dominant hand job with a powerful grip. He’s really good at it. His thumb teases the underside of my cockhead while he works the shaft. Meanwhile, he’s tickling my second sphincter with that strong finger of his, right near my tailbone. It’s weird, I know, but that spot gives me sexual shivers that are entirely distinct from prostate – from B-spot – stimulation. I love that he knows that about me. I love that my body has no secrets from him.

One final, kinky thought pushes me over the edge: Grant owns my orgasm. His powerful grip and his invading finger are telling me it’s okay to cum — no, they’re commanding me to cum. That’s it. I’m owned. I’m his fucktoy.

I quiver and explode; I think my first two spurts hit his back, because I don’t feel them land on my chest or belly. I shoot like an alpha, even though I feel like anything but. The contradiction doesn’t bother me. I’m deep in the mindfuck. I can justify practically anything. He’s firing me like a gun. I’m shooting so hard because that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do when my owner pulls my trigger.

Grant’s thrusting cock is swelling in my throat. I moan submissive, feminine, cock-muffled encouragement all around it. I slide my hands backwards and lovingly tease his firm, flexing glutes. He withdraws his finger and releases my cock. His hands find my legs and grip them tightly. If my mouth were truly an asshole or a pussy, he’d be plowing me in missionary. It’d be my legs around his ass, instead of my arms, encouraging him to go deeper and fuck harder.

He thrusts all the way into me. A groan catches in his throat for a moment before bursting forth. His thick cock spasms, injecting alpha cum directly into my tummy. I feel it striking the bottom. I imagine myself swelling up from the sheer volume of his load. I feel warm inside, both physically and emotionally.

My post-orgasmic glow is so boi-girly that I feel like I could cum again, but in a completely different way. The heat of Grant’s alpha cum would travel down from my tummy into my B-spot, and then into my balls. I’d be so submissive to him that every muscle in my body would relax, allowing him to do literally anything to me with no resistance whatsoever. My weak femboy juices would stream out of me; it’d feel like an extended, languid piss. I wouldn’t need to be milked. I wouldn’t need to be fucked. My body would just surrender my seed to be destroyed, and receive beta-girl pleasure as its reward.

It doesn’t happen, sadly. It’s just another crazy fantasy. Thankfully, though, I also don’t piss all over my boyfriend. That would have been awkward and gross.

I hang on to these final unconflicted moments for as long as I can. I wrap my arms around Grant’s lower back and let him collapse onto me. I’ve never really thought of it like this before, but he just bred my throat. He bred my tummy. Silly as it might sound, it’s just kinky enough to keep the mindfuck going for another few seconds. It keeps the darker thoughts at bay.

It has to end, though. Grant has to be Grant.

He leans upright and slides his deflating cock out of my throat. He lets me tease, clean, and worship it with just my mouth and tongue.

He releases a massive sigh, and lovingly strokes my platinum hair.

“Jesus, Lee,” he says, “I needed that. That was so good.”

And that’s that: no ‘good girl’ or ‘good boi;’ no ‘bitch;’ no ‘sissy;’ no kinky talk that reinforces my submission, my femininity, or his two complementary qualities. It’s just weird. It makes the process feel incomplete.

There’s something wrong with me, I think. It’s not Grant.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I reply around his cock.

He lowers his head and finds my eyes. He gives me a look; I know it well. It frustrates the hell out of me. He’s not feeling it, again. He’s silently telling me that my latest attempt to redefine our relationship — or, hell, just to define it — is silly and pathetic, just like all the other ones have been. He’s not my Daddy. Well, what the fuck is he, then? What the fuck am I?

I’ll be honest: his condescending gaze doesn’t just frustrate me. It kinda devastates me. I loved him so much thirty seconds ago. Now I feel hurt, and so fucking confused.

I just want to scream at him: ‘take the fucking lead with something other than your beautiful fucking cock, you dense motherfucker! I’ll follow you down so many fucking roads! Just fucking pick one, and get your alpha ass moving! Make me some kind of fucking bitch already!’

I don’t, though, because I’m more confused than I am angry. I don’t even know Anadolu Yakası Escort if my imaginary rant is on point.

“Hey,” he says, still looking down at me, “I love you. You know that, right?”

I start crying. It’s really bad. It’s the first time I’ve cried because of this, and it’s long overdue. I immediately feel guilty, which makes me cry even harder. We just had great sex. Now Grant’s probably thinking that the sex itself hurt me — either physically, emotionally, or both. That’s horrible. I’m horrible.

I lose track of what Grant’s doing, where he’s looking, what he’s saying — if anything at all. Everything gets blurry and snotty. Everything either aches or stings. It feels good to cry, but it doesn’t actually make me feel better. Is that confusing enough? Welcome to my world.

At some point, he lifted me up and repositioned me on the bed. He cleaned me up a little bit, and probably himself too. He propped me up on pillows and cradled me in his strong arms. I put that all together in hindsight — when I get out of my head enough to pay some attention to my surroundings, and to my boyfriend, who’s actually really sweet to me.

I feel kisses on the top of my head. I feel his hands stroking my shoulders and my back. I curl up and nuzzle into him. I try to pull my shit together — or at least stop crying, even though I know I’ll still be an ugly mess. I get the strangest urge to suck my thumb.

“I love you, Lee,” he says again. “You don’t have to say it back. I know you’re not in that head space right now.”

I feel even guiltier. I release one more ugly, choking sob. He runs his fingers through my hair. It helps a little. He’s petting me. I’m his pet. I’m his pet? No, I tried that shit last month. He’d given me that same look.

“How about just trusting me, instead?” he asks. “I’m not going to pull any of that dom/sub bullshit on you. You don’t have to. I’m not your master or owner or whatever. I’m just asking if you trust me enough to hear me out.”

“I don’t know,” I answer. It’s a blubbery, sniffling whine. I feel ridiculous. The thought occurs that I don’t sound feminine enough. That makes me feel even dumber. Grant’s being serious, and I’m thinking about stupid femboy shit.

“Something’s obviously not right,” he says. He doesn’t sound fazed at all. It’s almost like he didn’t hear what I’d just blubbered out. “But I don’t think it’s what you think it is. I’m not trying to invalidate you or whatever, Lee. I really want to help, and I think I can.”

I can’t meet his gaze. It’s just too hard. I nuzzle into him even more. I can only muster up enough courage to nod my head, rubbing my feathered bedhead against his chest. He takes his hand off my head, then uses both of his strong arms to gather me up into himself. He holds me tightly. It feels okay. I wish it felt better. I wish I could get out of my own way.

“No secrets, right?” he asks me.

I nod again.

“So it’s cool that I know all about the porn you watch, and read, and listen to, and…”

He trails off intentionally, letting me know that he knows what a horny little perv I am. It actually makes me giggle. I hit his chest with my hand, as weakly as a kitten. He kisses the top of my head some more. I feel a little better — just a little. It’s something.

“I pay attention to you, Lee,” he says. “I know people really hate getting figured out. They hate getting solved. But I’m going to put something out there, and I want you to try to move past all that, and just think about it.”

“Okay,” I reply quietly. “I’ll try not to be a real housewife.”

Grant shakes his head a little. I probably should’ve stuck with ‘drama queen.’ I’m about fifteen years unhip, but he’s more like thirty. It’s a little troubling, since he’s only twenty-three. At least I’m seven years older than my own painful lack of modern references. God, what kind of zoomer am I? Do zoomers even call themselves zoomers? I feel like I’m going to get audited. They’ll probably do it over Skype.

Grant sighs. I think he can sense that I’m going ADD on him. I probably shouldn’t call it that. It’s a gift when we’re fucking. Fantasies flit about like sparks; any one of them might set me off. When we’re not fucking, it’s a problem. In real life, stray sparks are dangerous.

Grant squeezes me. I know he’s trying to get me to refocus. I try. I really do.

“Lee,” he says, “you’re a femboy. That’s cool. That’s settled. But let me lay this on you. Breathe through it. I don’t think you’re gay. I don’t think you’re a bottom. I don’t think you’re a sub.”

I guess he just wanted to shock me into looking up at him. Well, it worked. I see genuine sympathy in his sandy, upturned eyebrows. I see the same in his olive-green eyes. That little half smile of his doesn’t even seem condescending. It seems confident and knowing.

“I think you’re bi, dude,” he says. “I think you’re a versatile bi switch. I think you need a İstanbul Escort girl in your life. I don’t know if you’d switch it up with her, but I think you at least need a bitch.”

I move away from him; he lets me go. He holds his hand still, and his fingertips brush against my departing shoulder. I know it should feel good, but I can’t register it. I hike my panties up and get off the bed. I don’t say anything. I walk around the apartment. For a while, my mind is a blank. I’m not thinking about what he said, but I’m also not going ADD. This is different.

I walk to the bathroom, look in the mirror, blink a few times, and just stare.

I walk to the kitchen, open up the fridge, stare at its contents for a minute, then close it again. Am I thirsty? Maybe. I don’t know.

The look on my face must be priceless. I must look like I just got punched — pow, right in the kisser — but am so profoundly stupid that it’s going to take me five minutes to realize that it hurts. It’s like that old cartoon: Tiny Toons. Elmyra. That was her name.

Okay, the ADD is back, a little bit.

I walk back to the bed. I stare dumbly at Grant. He’s lounging, naked, and just waiting for me to… well, to whatever the fuck.

“What the fuck?” I ask. It’s not aggro. It’s not an accusation. There’s barely any emotion to it at all.

“I know, right?” he agrees. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m bi too.”

“What the fuck?” I ask again. It’s different this time. It’s a question on top of a question. The raised tone at the end of it is all fucked up. I feel like I should be making those weird Italian hand gestures while also having a seizure.

He laughs. I feel a surge of indignation. He holds up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “You’re just really cute right now, Lee. I kind of just want to eat you up — keep you warm and safe in my belly, you know?”

“Fuckin’… vore?” I ask incredulously.

“Uh… I have no idea what that means,” he replies flatly.

I look in his eyes, and I believe him. I guess that means he didn’t get through all the porn links on my laptop.

“Oh,” I say, shaking my head a little. “Yeah. No. Metaphorically. Whatever. It’s cool.”

“This is a lot,” he says, still sympathetic, and still perfectly even-keeled. “I totally get it. What do you feel like doing? We can do anything. We can table this shit and just… do something else.”

I think about it for a minute.

“Fuckin’… tacos,” I say. “Let’s get fuckin’ tacos. What the fuck. What the fuck.”

Grant nods eagerly, then hops out of bed and starts fishing for clothes. I shake my head a few more times, then repeat the loop around the apartment that I just made. This time, I actually do the shit: I use the bathroom and wash up. I get a drink from the kitchen. I go back to the bedroom — really, just the big middle room of the tiny studio — and find some clothes.

We do, in fact, get some fuckin’ tacos. They’re pretty fuckin’ good. I think I only say ‘what the fuck?’ like half a dozen more times. Grant’s pretty cool about it, but he does chuckle occasionally. As time goes by and tacos get eaten, I feel less butthurt.

Three days later — a lot of porn later — I tell Grant that there is a small chance that he might be a fuckin’ genius. He spins me around, bends me over, yanks down my panties, and makes the obvious dad joke. There’s something different about the hardcore pounding that follows. It feels surreally devoid of kink. My boyfriend just plain fucks me in the ass. It feels good. I cum, he cums, we enjoy the afterglow, and that’s that.

Afterwards, I don’t work myself into a tizzy. I feel like our relationship just had an intermission fuck — and, even though I’ve literally never even heard that term before, I suddenly feel like it’s a real thing, and that it needed to happen to us.

* * * * * *

It’s been two months since our intermission fuck. Things have been good, even though we haven’t officially started our next act. Grant is still Grant, but I think I’ve changed. I think Grant really helped me out. He still fucks my boi-hole and my throat. He still gives me hand jobs. I still give him blowjobs. He even takes me over his knee sometimes, and milks my B-spot with his fingers or a toy.

The difference is that I’ve leveled out. I don’t get the crazy highs from all my flash-in-the-pan submissive fantasies. I also don’t suffer the crushing lows when they all bounce off of Grant. It’s definitely a change. It’s definitely less stressful! Still, I think we both know that we’re treading water. Intermissions, by definition, need to end. The good news is that we have a rough idea of what we want. The trick is finding it.

A lot of kinky het couples look for someone called a unicorn. That’s a bi girl willing to get down with an existing het couple — all swing, no strings. People get butthurt about it; I kinda get that, but not fully. I’m a shitty queer sometimes, I guess. Case in point, bi people fucking hate the meme that they’re incapable of being monogamous because they like too many different bits. Here we are, though: a bi boi and his bi boyfriend, on the hunt for a girl. They’ll be ringing the shame bells at us during the next pride parade.

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