fantasizing about being at a dyke house party. there’s mostly other femmes there and a few tougher butches, but one butch seems more clean-cut, has a nervous dorky vibe and seems very out of place. probably a cooler butch’s friend who got invited along. they clearly don’t go to house-parties often, or even talk to people that often, and they’re crossfaded the moment i get there.
throughout the night i leer at the butch out of the corner of my eye, watch them continue hovering nervously around others, barely able to break into conversation, chugging drinks nervously and chasing frantically after anyone who heads out for a smoke. they clearly can’t handle their weed or their liquor, but nobody is paying attention enough (or cares enough) to stop them. i catch them glancing at me intermittently, but they’re too scared to approach even as i’m staring right back.
far past midnight i find them slumped over half-conscious on the couch, cradling a nearly-empty cup inbetween their thighs. i sit next to them with my legs tucked up underneath me and begin talking to them in a sweet, low voice. i call them sweetheart and honey, say i caught them looking at me all night, ask who brought them there, ask their name. i see the glint of anxiety in their wet, reddened eyes- they got so fucked up they can barely move, and barely talk. i’m not even sure they understand what i’m saying to them, so i make sure to talk slow and clear in a condescending tone, like they’re a little kid. they mumble something about me being pretty, eyes very slowly moving back-and-forth my face to my cleavage, still shining with dumb anxiety.
i tilt my head and make a sound of pity, and brandish my cup, filled with a clear liquid. “you poor baby,” i say, “you should have some water. here, drink some of mine.” i pour my cup out into theirs, and they frantically clench their thighs and clumsily move their hand to grab it and hold it in place. they whine about how nice i am, smiling naively, and slowly, painstakingly, lift the cup up to their lips. their eyes keep drifting shut. they take a sip and their face scrunches up as the pungent taste hits their tongue, and their eyes open and they look at me nervously. they open their mouth as if to ask me something, but i lean in close and wrap my arm around their shoulders, pressing my large chest against theirs. my mouth presses against their sweaty head as i kiss it gently. “drink your water,” i murmur, gentle, my other hand coming up to the bottom of their cup. “here, i’ll help you. you’ll feel so much better.”
