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faggot

content warning: This post centers the word faggot, which some find offensive.

faggot

My spouse and I and our homegirl were on a road trip.  On the freeway, headed north–strangely, I was driving.  Driving is not something I do much.  A motorcycle was behind me for a long time.

“Do you think it’s a pig?” my homegirl asked.

She was in the passenger seat, resting.

“No, I doubt it,” I said.  “But I want to get out of their way.”

I had been in the fast lane, and there was a lot of traffic because it was Friday afternoon.  Then I moved one lane to the right.

“Oh, crap,” I said.   Wow–the motorcycle passed me.  Yes, it was a cop.  My friend cursed the cop under her breath.

“Faggot, bitch, piece of shit…” she said.

“Hey, I love faggots!  I love bitches!” I said.  “Faggots and bitches are my people.”

“I love calling cops faggots,” my homegirl said.

disagree

It’s good to be close friends and able to disagree.  To be a bitch is sacred and holy.  I aspire to bitch-ness.

When I was a kid, that was a bad word.  Now I wish I could go back in time and know that every incident where someone called a girl or woman a bitch, that bitch was me.   A boy or man insulting a woman for being too powerful and selfish?  A boy or man insulting a woman for centering herself or taking what’s hers?  That’s my people.  Bitches are my people.

Then faggots are my people also.  Boys, bois, enbies, transwomen being accused of liking dick.  Bottoms especially, with a bit of flame, a gay accent, a limp wrist.  Yes, I have never been called a faggot, like I’ve been called a bitch.

So that’s not my word.  My homegirl is a transwoman who doesn’t always pass.  For years she was yelled at on the street on a daily basis.  I’m imagining that faggot is one of the names she’s been called in a violent way.  So that word is hers.

hot

I told the motorcycle cop language story to my good friend who is also trans, but enby.  This good friend looks possibly masc of center, these days.

At the end, I explained how the word faggot is not mine.  I’ve never been called faggot in a mean way or in a nice way.

“Would you like to be called a faggot?” my friend asked.

“Oh yes, I would,” I replied.

“Would you like it to happen organically?” my friend asked.

I might have blushed.

“I think I would like it too much,” I explained.

Yes, I wanted my friend to call me faggot.  But that would be too hot for our particular relationship.

As for my desires, I didn’t grow this mustache for nothing.  I’m asking for gender play and to cause at least a shadow of doubt to pass through the minds of anyone gazing.  The tits precede me, and I think most everyone sees me as a cis woman who didn’t shave.

But my gender truth is powerful.  The canny might know what’s real in my body.

gone meta

Then later I told my homegirl the story of telling the story to my friend.  My homegirl gently chided me, for wanting my friend to call me a faggot and knowing I would get off on it.

“You got it bad,” she said.

“No!  How do I got it bad?” I asked.  “I got it really good, I think.”

It’s funny how intimacy snakes around.  The conversation has received a lot of thought, as now I’ve also told the story to you, dear reader.

questions for discussion
  • Are you a faggot?
  • How does that word make you feel?
  • Would you like to cum, as someone you trust or love or don’t even know calls you faggot?
  • Ideally, would their dick be in one of your holes, as they called you that?
  • How can I hold you?
  • How can we build a world where we’re safe for real, and in danger only in play?

By Nest

Curious, disabled Earth Goddess, telling the truth.

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