I see you leaning against the doorway as though it was put their specifically for your use. The leather of your jacket, molding strong shoulders blue flannel peeking out at your collar.You run your fingers through the inch long bristles of your hair and shift in your combat boots. Your piercing blue eyes scan the room, seeking your kind. I am passed over without a second glance.
Why? Does my dress scare you? Do you feel threatened by my lipstick? Do you feel I'm not a "real" lesbian? Do you think I'm weak?
I want to take you to force you to your knees before me. To teach you the thin line between pain and pleasure. My whip knows no butch or femme.
After I'm done with you, you won't pass on a femme again.