Bastard Life

Grace Slick. "The first time I picked up my girlfriend's guitar I was blown away by how heavy it was. The fact that she fronts a band, and throws her body all over the stage singing with this thing on is a huge turn on. I've played guitar for over a decade, too, so I love to tune it up for her before she goes out. When I do, thinking of her sweaty hot rock and roll body all over mine after the show, it gets me good and wet."—Grace, Seattle, WA

She's all I ever wanted. "My girl doesn't make me work for a thing when we are intimate. I know it sounds piggish and I would feel guilty, if it weren't for her when she says, 'Just lay back and enjoy the ride.' Sometimes I want to throw her over and just start making love to her in a million different positions. But she won't have it. 'Oh, I love what I do, and I'm glad it does it for you, but it's just what I like. If you didn't like it as much as I did, I'd feel selfish.' All I can say is, if your girl really means it when she says she's a top—I can relate, because that's what I have on my hands here. It's like watching a rodeo star who goes way past the 8 second trophy mark—on you."-Bo, Reno, Nevada

Real women. "I've been seething about something I just need to get off my fabulously breasted chest. I have been out for a decade, but I continue to hear men use terms like 'dyke,' and refer to me as if women of my sexual orientation wear overalls and Jockey underwear beneath them. Nothing could be further from my truth. And not only that, my closest girlfriends, all of whom are lesbians and proud of it, couldn't be more girl. We dish like girls, we act like girls, and we dress like girls, right down the skinny sexy panties that only we get to pull off for the kind of fun no man could ever give us."—Laura T., New York, NY

Sex versus intimacy. Clara and Paulo had only been going out for six months, but "we had fallen deeply in love," she says staring out of a steamed up Philly cafe window last December. "Our love making was always passionate, and after," she explains, "we both seemed so close." 

"I had been with several men before Paulo," Clara says almost pridefully. "But I'm 38, not on a husband hunt, but getting to that point where I want more than simply to be lusted after." And lusted after I was sure she had been. Clara was runway model tall, with thick fashion red lips, and long dirty blond hair that rained down, tumbling over her breasts. Her skin had an olive glow, that complimented her glistening bright green eyes. Thinking back to when Clara might have been single, I was certain she had been the most stunning one in the room.

"But then the other night something caught me off guard," she said staring again out of the window without the confidence she displayed about her prowess past. "My sensual lover, who always took me into his arms and literally 'made-love-to-me' became one of my old tricks. We had had a late dinner and lots of rich red wine out with friends before we walked back to his place. I could tell he was a bit tipsy—so was I. I slid my hand into his and cuddled up closer to his shoulder. He was so hot, I could feel his muscles through his blazer and overcoat. I couldn't wait to get him home and let him take me. His apartment was pitch black when we arrived. The sound of his keys hitting a small side table in the entrance way was loud in the silence. Then he started, 'Take off your fucking clothes and put your pussy on the edge of the bed.'"

Clara lit a cigarette, which on her looked cinematically sexy. Her eyes narrowed and her confidence came back as she blew out smoke and cocked her head. "I got it and went along. But no man was going to out 'top' me. In the dark, I grinned devilishly and allowed the romp to begin—giving him anything he barked out he wanted from me. It was an aggression I had never imagined he had in him. And by the end of the night he'd managed to have me exactly where every guy I had ever had wanted me—propped up on all fours with my ass in the air ready to give all of it up. I took it—a lot of it, for a good long session. It was great, actually. But a few orgasms later (mine) and I lay back on the bed listening to him snore, I had already moved on."

Then with that same devilish grin, Clara smashes out her cigarette in a clear glass ashtray, looks up to my eyes and says, "I love a good fuck—but these days, I want the face time—with eyes looking into me while we're intimate. Then maybe, after a time, long after we really start to get to know each other—we can begin to get filthy."—M.T.

One of the Many. Hollywood, California's "TechBabe," is one: a self proclaimed hot-tech-geek-chic who has managed to stay employed in the usually boring and balls only world of IT says she's, "...grown some pretty thick skin, learned a great deal about the male psyche and has pretty much confirmed that men are the weaker sex." With goals of revolutionizing the technology industry from staid to rock and roll, TechBabe proved her prowess by celebrating today's inauguration day with a special treat for us. Let's just say she's feeling a little smoother and a lot happier today.—N.B.  

Men, not Metrosexuals, make a comeback. In a poll of over 2000 (out of the 80,000) of you who read BastardLife this week, over 72% voted Johnny Depp as your Man of the Year. We won't bore you with his competition—as you clearly don't see him as having much. Suffice it to say though that Brad Pitt was below fourth on your wish list. Stay tuned for tomorrow's Women of the Year results.—N.B.

First thing I see are her legs, clad in the kind of stockings that make me hard just by thinking about them: fishnets. Her legs are long, and in her mini skirt, which rides up her thigh, I can see her pale skin augmented by the tightly woven black pattern that seems made just for her. She doesn’t just wear the fishnets, she owns them. I've seen women try to rock fishnets who simply can't pull them off, who wear them as if they were any other kind of stockings, tugged on hastily during a rushed morning, ripped in spots, slammed into sneakers, used and abused in the most careless manner possible.  

There should be some kind of test when purchasing such delicate garments, I think, like an ID for cigarettes, but in all things fishnet, the test should be for class. I can always tell when a woman really cares about her fishnets, when she's the type who shakes them out before holding open the hole and sliding her foot into it, aware of every nuance of sensuality involved. I can tell when she makes sure that the seam up the back is perfectly even, forming a straight line right up to her ass, one I love to trace with my tongue, when she cares enough to buy the kind that have a seam. I can tell when the mere act of donning a pair of fishnets sends a rush of blood to her clit, when she morphs from gorgeous to goddess in the act, when she lets them transport her from ordinary to sex goddess. The rest of her outfit doesn’t really matter, nor how tall or short she is; a woman who wears fishnets like they’re her birthright is the kind I want to fuck, the kind whose fishnets I want to kiss and stroke and caress before ultimately peeling them down and plunging my cock inside her. Fishnet girls are all about foreplay, leaving me on the edge of arousal for as long as we both can stand it. That's the kind of woman I look for, who wears her fishnets not simply as artifice or armor but amour, who steps into her dominance one foot at a time.   

This particular fishnet queen is sitting in the corner of my favorite local café in a plush chair, with another chair facing her, so I assume she's with someone. I’m disappointed but still thrilled to have gotten even a glimpse of her as I head to the counter to order my latte, one eye on those legs just because they’re there. Only once I've gotten my steaming brew do I see the rest of her, a mop of ink-black hair inelegantly tossed against her head, eyes painted with kohl, some kind of black outfit, black sweater, dark nails. I bet she's the kind of girl who only wears high-fashion black, the kind of fabrics that melt to the touch, who spends a fortune on her underwear and stockings and keeps them constantly updated, and if she's not, I'd be more than happy to keep her stocked in fishnets.  

She looks up, as if searching for a waiter, though this isn't the kind of place with table service. Her eyes meet mine and she raises her brow. I practically trip towards her when she cocks her head. I should be used to women who wear fishnets making the first move, but I grew up in a time and place where, sadly, that was the man's job. The first time a woman (older, my college roommate's mom, of course) put her hand on my ass in a way that wasn’t joking or asking but taking what was clearly hers, I practically came in my pants. It's only a very specific kind of woman who makes me long to get down on my knees and worship my way from the tips of their toes all the way on up, and the fishnets are just a part of it. This stranger has a look in her eye letting me know she meets guys like me all the time. The idea that I'm no one special, that she's inviting me over because she knows exactly what I want and is waiting to see if I’ll make the grade, has me standing taller and walking with more authority. I want to prove myself to her before we've even met, prove that I can be whoever she wants me to be, whenever she wants me to be. It doesn’t make sense but, like the best sexual encounters, it doesn’t have to. It’s not something you think about, but something you feel from the tip of your tongue down the back of your throat right on down to your hard, throbbing cock?at least, that’s how it is for me. 

"Sit," she says before taking a sip of the steaming coffee in her mug. It's straight black, fittingly, in a room where almost everyone else has some tongue-twister of a five-dollar beverage poised against their manicured hands. Up close, I see her nails aren't exactly black, but a glossy, gleaming red so dark it takes being next to it to appreciate its blood-like hue. The image makes me think of her clawing at me with the nails, on the edge of drawing blood, but I look up into her brown eyes instead as I place myself into the plush chair opposite her. Then I sit holding my coffee, waiting for her reaction, her next command, as my loafered feet land perilously close to her heels. Even just having that one part of me near her legs makes my cock jolt, and I shift in my seat, wanting to hide my hardness from her, at least until we're introduced.   

She sips her coffee, appraising me, and I marvel at her ability to look not only like she owns this place, but like that would be a worthy feat. Almost everyone else is tucked into themselves, hovered over a laptop or notebook, ear curled into a cell phone, bent down to blow on their hot beverages. She sits proudly, her legs grabbing all the attention as she does whatever calculations she needs to do. “Name?” she asks, like she’s on a fact-finding mission. 

I could lie, but I don’t. “Brad,” I say, the lone syllable sounding inadequate somehow. I wish it were more stately, elegant, befitting someone about to join such a queen, but it is what it is. 

“Hmmm…” is all she says, looking me over. Then her shoe clatters to the ground and her foot hovers near me. I can see bright red toenails peeking out of the mesh. I’m torn between wanting to press her fishnet-covered foot against my face and easing them off to suck on her toes directly. “You want to be down there, don’t you, Brad?” she asks, leaning forward and almost sloshing her dark brew onto me. She grabs my wrist and those strong nails dig into the underside. My dick is rock-hard and I’m afraid I’ll come in my pants. She knows, somehow. Maybe it’s obvious, maybe anyone looking can see by my face, my posture, everything about me that I want nothing more right now than to be kneeling next to her, my tongue between her legs, fishnets on either side, buried in her cunt. She reaches up to pinch my bottom lip, twisting it until it hurts. It’s the good kind of hurt, don’t worry; she knows exactly how to play me even though we’ve just met. That’s another thing about real fishnet queens; they can read me like an open book. They don’t need elaborate instructions or yes/no lists or safewords. They get it, just like that. 

“What would you give to be between my legs right now? What can you offer me that will make me take you home with me?” Part of me wants to look around, see if anyone’s heard her, make sure this is actually happening. But she’s moved her fingers back to my wrist, grabbing it forcefully. She shifts so her knee just lightly brushes mine. My mind races to find the right answer, the perfect gift. I know it’s not money she wants; that would be way too pedestrian for the likes of her. 

“I can offer you a lifetime supply of stockings. Fishnets in particular,” I say, the idea coming to me from some deep recess of my brain. How much could they cost, really? Okay, I know the answer to that, I know that the high-end ones she probably prefers can run a pretty penny, but she’s worth it, that much I know. “As many as you want . . . as long as you let me put them on you,” I add, daring to tack on a condition that just may kill our negotiation. 

“I’ll want that in writing,” she says, letting go of my arm and sinking back into her seat. She takes a satisfied sip and then turns back to the magazine she’d been reading. I look away, drink my coffee but barely taste it. I keep my eyes down at my hands, my lap, at nothing. If I look up I’ll surely blush or encounter prying eyes, and to look at her would be rude, would breach what little trust she’s granted me. I sip slowly, draw it out, until she’s done. I don’t have a watch so don’t know how long it takes, but I try to relax and just bask in her presence. I’ve been waiting to meet someone just like her, have taken out ads and gone on blind dates and even prayed, but here she is, as if she were waiting just for me. 

“Get up,” she snaps, her steely voice reminding me that my hard-on still hasn’t subsided. I rise quickly, and she hands me her bag to carry while her heels click on the tiles. She does have seams running up the backs of her fishnets, and a slit in her skirt that gives me a glimpse of smooth thighs. I hope someday I’ll get to grab her from behind, get to bend her over and press my legs against her stockinged legs while I slide my dick inside her again and again. I know we’re a long ways away from that, but marching behind her brings that image to the fore. 

I don’t know where I’m going and for the first time in a long time, I don’t need to. People think that submission is easy, and in a sense, it is. You get to be the one following orders, not making them. Yet it’s such a departure from my daily routine, where decisions beg to be made seemingly every moment, where a ringing phone is my constant companion, where one wrong move and I could lose millions. Here all I have to do is listen to her words as they emerge from her plump red lips while I imagine what she will want to do to me. It’s an adjustment I’m happy to make. Her driver is outside in a limo waiting to take us where she needs to go. 

He doesn’t even bat an eye when I hold the door for her and hurry in afterwards. “You know where to go,” she tells him. She may as well be telling me; I know, too. “Turn around,” she says, twirling her finger to let me know she wants me looking out the window. I do, but only for a moment, before she slips a blindfold over my eyes. For a moment, I wonder if this is dangerous, if my instincts have led me astray, if I’ll wind up dead or abandoned somewhere. Then I feel her fingers pressing against the back of my neck, digging and massaging all at once, the same way she did to my wrist. I let out the breath I’ve been holding. 

“We’re both going to get what we want, Brad,” she says, her use of my name making me realize I don’t know hers. “You don’t need to know who I am right now. There’s time for that later. Right now you’re going to service me and if you do a good job, maybe you’ll be rewarded.” I feel her at my wrists again and realize she’s binding them. She’s not using rope, though, and as she tugs the bonds against my arms, I realize she’s used a pair of fishnets! I haven’t heard any rustling to signal she’s removed her own, so she must have had a spare pair somewhere. Once again I almost come, but manage to hold off. 

“What do you want, Brad?” she asks, even though she’s gotta know. Her lips rush to my neck, then my ear, biting none too gently. Her fingers tickle my cock, the nails gracing its hardness with the lightest of touches.  

“I want to lick your pussy. I want you to wet my face with your juices. I want to make you come again and again,” I say, the words getting raspier as I hear them hover in the air. They sound so much dirtier when spoken aloud, especially since we’re not alone, but they’re totally true. 

“You better do a good job,” she says, and I smile just for a second, because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s eating pussy. I’ve always loved the sensual feel of being trapped between a woman’s thighs, her musk wafting around me, my tongue sliding against her oyster, lapping at the pearl, and diving back inside. I could spend hours between a woman’s legs, and I have, but I know we don’t have that kind of time. The car’s been zipping smoothly along, making occasional turns. My wrists are snug between the fishnets, and I wonder if they’re ones she’s worn before, wonder whether they contain the traces of her juices. She guides me between her legs, her skirt hiked up. She’s splayed out against the seat while I’m scrunched down, but the minute I get a taste of her, none of that matters. She’s not wearing any panties, and the fishnet pattern travels all the way up, so between the small holes of the fabric, my tongue meets her slippery, salty flesh. I push harder, feeling the slight abrasion of the fabric against my tongue. She must like the rough sensation as I lick my way up. Her hand clamps to the back of my head, tugging at the short hairs there. I try to ignore my aching cock as I savor her cream.        

I nuzzle my face from side to side, and while I’m blissfully between her lips, I forget that we’ve just met, that all I really know about her is what she wears and what she drinks and what she tastes like. That’s all I need as I work my tongue against the stockings’ grooves, loving it yet longing to plunge all the way inside. She’s groaning against me, shoving my face deeper into her pussy, until she finally pushes me back and tears a hole in the tights just big enough to let me inside. I’m surrounded by her labia and the wet stockings; in other words, I’m in heaven. 

She’s rocking up against me and getting wetter and wetter, practically shoving her cunt into my mouth and I love every second of it. “Fuck me with your tongue, Brad,” she screams, and that’s exactly what I do, the scratchy stockings lightly abrading my cheeks. I know I will feel and taste her later even if this is my only chance, and that spurs me on. I’ve been trying not to rush things, to go too fast as I press against her walls, rotating my tongue against the places that are most sensitive. I pull out and suck on her clit, wishing for the use of my fingers even my body delights in the bondage she’s put me in. I breathe warmly against her clit, feel it stiffen even more, then tap my tongue against it steadily. Then harder and harder, flick, flick, flick, until she’s using me as her fucktoy, slamming my mouth against her pussy over and over again, sliding up and down, grinding against me. There are moments where I can barely breathe, and those are the ones I love the most. I am my fishnet queen’s pussy slave, here for her pleasure, and she takes and takes and takes, coming against me not once or even twice but three times, leaving me coated with her essence. 

I’m sure the blindfold is probably ruined too, and when she guides me out from between her legs and takes it off, I stare up at her, my eyes glossy, glazed with lust. My cock is still hard but no longer so insistent; I’d gone to a place where my pleasure was subsumed by hers. She still manages to look regal even with her torn stockings and reddened cheeks. “Sit back, against the window,” she says, and I do, feeling my bound hands press against the door, my head tilted to the chilled window. I can see her deep pink pussy lips from here. She stretches her legs out toward me, and I quickly see where this is going. She rubs my cock with one fishnet-covered foot, then, impatient, leans forward to let my naked shaft emerge. Her foot upon my cock is an image that will be permanently seared into my mind. Hard, straining red dick against tender black, glimpses of her pale skin beneath. Her foot is warm and soft, and when she brings the other one around to manipulate me between them, I’m gone. The woven fabric against my hot flesh makes me spurt, both of us watching as a river of come erupts from my cock onto her feet. 

My face contorts as a few tears trickle down my face, the sheer relief of a fantasy not just fulfilled but exceeded in every possible way doing me in. That’s when she takes off the fishnets, the ones soiled with both of our orgasms, and shoves them in my mouth. I breathe deeply through my nose while she fishes out some papers. “Sign these,” she says, handing me a pen. She’s somehow filled out a contract cementing our plan. I look at her in awed fascination. I’ve never met a woman like her before, and probably never will. I see the car swinging back to our original meeting place, and I quickly scrawl my signature. “Put your phone number, too.” I do, but again, she doesn’t give me hers. “Meet me here next week, same time, same place.” She hands me a slip of paper with a brand name and make on it. They’re one of the priciest stocking companies around, and seeing the words makes my cock twitch. I wonder if I’ll be able to get home from the store without jerking off. She pulls the ball of sodden fishnets from my lips, and I whimper. “Keep them,” she says, leaning over to open the car door, her breasts brushing my lap as she does. I get out, dazed, surely looking foolish as I clutch her instructs and her stockings in my hands while the limo departs. I don’t care go back inside, but start walking, with two miles to go with her fishnets in my hand to remind me that this wasn’t a dream.—Rachel Kramer Bussel 

"It`s true - I am a bisexual. But I can`t deny that I`ve used that fact very well. I suppose it`s the best thing that ever happened to me. Fun, too."—David Bowie

And now, live from the world of Wikipedia:

"...Bisexual chic is a phrase sometimes used to describe the public acknowledgement of bisexuality among various segments of society. In some cases the phrase can be considered pejorative, when used to trivialize or dismiss genuine feelings of same-sex attraction, especially if those expressing these thoughts continue to exhibit otherwise hetero normative behaviors.

One usage of the phrase describes increased public interest in bisexuality, or increased social acceptance of bisexuality. This usage is usually associated with a celebrity coming out as bisexual or being labeled as bisexual, or with a high-profile reference to bisexuality in popular culture media, like a cover article of a magazine.

The other main usage describes a faddish attention towards bisexuality. This usage is also limited in scope, as it fails to provide relevant content of what it means to be bisexual, to give context to the legitimacy of bisexuality as an orientation, and even to convey a full understanding of bisexuality..."

People, is it more taboo to be bi than gay? The Wikipedia commentary of 'bisexual chic' is as confused as those who hate bi's think we are. Funny, because while the neighbors and colleagues all sat in judgement, or in their own confusion, or sighed at how confused they thought I must be—I was having the time of my life. Bi is real, gay is real, straight is real. And on Bastardlife, you can dip and dab in as many of them as you like. Be safe and enjoy.—N.B.

STDs are scary, condoms aren't. Think.—N.B.