California Reaming - A Woman's Adventures In Polyamory

My second girlfriend was Ingrid, whom I met in Berkeley through the Berkeley Barb, a local rag of the late 60s. Personal ads were just getting under way back then.

Ingrid lived down in Pacific Grove, a quaint little artsy community on the road heading down towards Carmel. "Hippie chick" described Ingrid to a T. She had a kind of Janis Joplin flavor about her, long brown hair, a solid body, a droll demeanor. We all exhibited shades of Janis back then. I ran around in gold paisley bellbottoms, with a yellow shirt, a yellow sheepskin vest, black boots and rose-hued aviator sunglasses. My blonde hair was just below my shoulders and normally all over the place. Riding a motorcycle does that to a girl.

With Ingrid, a new sexual technique came into my life. She was the first woman to go down on me. My first guy had done that too, but to far less effect. Ingrid was good at it. I brought her back to the Chinese girls rooming house I lived in at the time. I don't know why they let me in. For some reason there were just other asian women there. And me, and one Korean woman whom the other girls seemed to shun. I wondered if they heard Ingrid and I that night. The rooms were small, the floors wooden. Sound seemed to carry like a pistol shot.

Let them get to know the more esoteric rituals of the White Women, I thought to myself, as I was coming with Ingrid. She was very easy to deal with. She even got me to come down and visit her in her little artsy shack in Pacific Grove.

There I took my first (and only) Mescaline trip. A bumpy ride, as Margo Channing would say. At one point I had a handful of jellybeans, lined up in a row. They suddenly became, in my skewered little brain, my parents, and I proceeded to bite their heads off, one by one. Lovely stuff. Ingrid took me out for a walk along the beach, but I was just too paranoid to be kept out in public for long. Eventually we meandered our way back to her place.

Our relationship probably would have continued had we not attempted to move in with one another. It was way too soon and ultimately too scary a proposition for me.

We rather spontaneously decided to rent a room from a couple of Berkeley lesbians who owned a house with a basement we were going to fix up. Sometime during the first night there I lay awake, thinking, wondering if this was the right move. Around two o'clock I decided it wasn't. I needed more space. I couldn't exist in a tiny basement in a small single bed with a girl I barely knew.

I would never have done this with a guy, so why was I so ready to leap with this woman? Beats me. I realized I couldn't go thru with it though, and moved back to my Chinese rooming house the very next morning.

I was disappointed, surprised. I felt badly. I simply did not know my own mind. Being the scared little girl I was then, I backed away from Ingrid. She seemed ok that I couldn't move in with her, but she seemed prepared to carry on dating.

I was not. The whole experience was now too scary. Like the coward I was back then, I ran.

- - - - - - - -

The first really organized sex party I ever attended was early last year in downtown Los Angeles. It's a group called L.A.Couples. They don't exactly come out and refer to themselves as swingers, but when the label wafts their way they don't run for cover either.

I attended one of their parties as a way to find out what their facility is like. Back at the time I was working with a small committee of other gay and bisexual women who were looking for a space to rent for a monthly girlie sex party. We looked everywhere for a space. Let me tell you, it ain't easy. Especially when you drop the clinker on the landlord to be, that it's for a girlie sex party.

It's amazing how many places said "no" to us. Some of it had to do with insurance matters on the building in question. A lot of it had to do with...well, it goes under the category of "You Girls Shouldn't Be Having That Much Fun."

I looked at male bathhouses too, in the hopes that they might have an off-night when the owner might want to chance renting his facility out to a horde of women. Not much doing there either. Male bathhouses in a place like L.A. don't HAVE off-nights. Every night is a great night to make money for them. Why give that up?

So eventually I stumbled across the L.A.Couples crowd. The owner, L, is a thin blonde woman of Scottish descent. Together with her husband they manage this huge warehouse of a facility. Several activities take place here. During the days, it is the largest porn studio in Los Angeles. They shoot everything here, just about. On the weekends, they have swinger parties, or BDSM male parties. So if you're a group with some dough and you want to rent space, this is the place for you.

It is a catacomb of nooks and crannies filled with dungeon paraphernalia, i.e. a pretty authentic-looking jail cell, whipping posts. But it also has goodies for the whitebread types among us. There is a Sultan's Lair, with plush bedding and heavy on the drapery, of course. There are beds so huge and elevated you might think you were boarding an oil drilling platform in the Gulf of Mexico.

If you like exotic settings while you groove erotically with your beloved(s), then you must attend a weekend party here.

The admission price is probably creeping up around a hundred bucks a couple now, but you get some bang for your bucks. They have a large nightclub kind of area that includes a full bar, a pretty decent buffet, and an elevated dance floor in the front, complete with several poles for those ladies who care to flex their muscles gyrating around them.

They have a little girls bedroom that's JUST for women. I found my way there rather early in the evening. It was already occupied by three fetching Ladies of Color, who were involved in a lovely daisy chain of muff diving. I didn't want to jump in, but I was certainly happy to lounge close by and stroke myself as I watched them at their play. After completion, they got up and went their way as if they had just visited the Powder Room.

I should caution people though, that if you are a woman looking specifically for other women, this may be hard to find here. The atmosphere is pretty relentlessly heterosexual. Queerness has not invaded this space yet, at least not on the "couples nights." And male-on-male action is unknown. Give it about another twenty years.

- - - - - - - -

So, what's your partner like, people have asked me. And since he figures in these columns, rather prominently at times, I decided I would write about him today.

I have written how D is really into sex, more than just about any other person, male or female, I have ever known. When he's home from working on the road, he still tends to get up early in the morning, make himself a cup of coffee, and then hang out on the computer. D really loves his porn, and he can pass several hours looking at it before I even crack an eyelid. He loves it all. Boy pictures, nasty men doing nasty things in all manner of nasty ways, girls and their pets. Not anything too vanilla, don't you agree? He especially enjoys the "mature women" sections of his favorite porn sites.

He threatens to put my photos on the internet. So far we have some good ones. He is planning on getting a few more after this Christmas homecoming stay.

I look forward to my ass in lights. Rest assured we shall keep you all informed.

Then sometimes D will leave off looking at the screen and he'll come into bed with me as I slowly start to wake up. Before I can say "breakfast in bed" I may feel him inside me. It's always a lovely way to wake up in the morning.

Later D might dig out his soprano saxaphone and play that for a bit. Next to sex and food, music is the other main interest in his life. In his twenties, D had a little jazz combo that played at bar mitzvahs around the New York City area. His musical tastes run to Qawalli (Muslim religious songs), to industrial (he's turned me onto Nine Inch Nails and Ministry), to electronica. I am slowly introducing him to the world of opera, although I find I love his tastes. Country? Don't think so.

The day may continue with a trip to our favorite market here in the south bay. D likes to plan his meals carefully when he's at home. Food is a huge part of his world. He especially loves duck. He can quite competently prepare his own birds, roast them, and then devour the whole thing at just about one sitting. I like to think his appetite will rub off on me, because I need to eat more. But if anything, his appetites shame me into puniness. I am so amazed at what he can sock away that I must forget to eat myself. I tell him he eats enough for the both of us.

He is the middle boy of three brothers.

His family was Orthodox, and each son reacted to that in his own way. D's older brother, a graphic designer, was quite gay, and travelled in a fast world. The youngest brother is an accountant and the devout one. The older brother passed of AIDS in 1991, and this was a great shock to the family.

Did this alarm me about D himself, people ask me. Earlier on I was more concerned for his safety, and mine, but we followed all the safe sex procedures when we got together. He tells me of his bath house experiences as a way of pointing out how he practices safe sex. So I am reassured. We have been together over 15 years now. Aren't we doing something right?

- - - - - - -

The sex party eventually winds down. I have never been to one when I stayed so long, and the time flew by so quickly. Those of us who are sleeping over start looking around for places to land. I've brought my sleeping bag and a small pillow. I am prepared. Some people just crash on whatever empty bed is available. It is nearly 4 a.m. when things reach an end.

The living room has cleaned out pretty much, so I throw my bag down there on the thick white carpet. Several other people join me.

Sounds of combat can be heard still emanating from one of the upstairs rooms. I can almost bet it's the hot little asian girl and her white boyfriend. He is covering her like glue.

Sleeping time is only a couple of hours, then people start stirring. The hostess traditionally puts on a fine brunch for the partygoers the next morning, and even those players who stayed locally in motels drive back for the brunch. This party is all about connections, it seems, and the brunch is a great way to close the festivities out.

Our deejay L and his wife R play head chefs here, as they fry up some spicy sausage and eggs for the group. I am of the opinion that they are making a TON of food, but they don't seem concerned. The food vanishes in short order, just like it did the night before.

What's going on here? These people eat like cyclists who've just done a century ride. Suddenly, the food disappears as quickly as it was prepared.

It's over brunch where people trade emails, stories, whatnot. You really get to know them here. One guy in a gray wool dress helps me with the dishes. Yes, you heard correctly. A perfectly handsome, normal guy who happens to be wearing a dress. His girlfriend comes up behind to buss him.

"That's how you should grab a man," I encourage her. "When he's soapy and defenseless."

The pair laugh at this. She spins him around, grabs the hem of his dress, and lifts it up for me to see his finely shaped naked ass. I guess he doesn't believe in Victoria's Secret underwear.

"Look at this butt," she exclaims. "Can you believe this butt is 53 years old?"

I whistle my appreciation. This guy looks as in great a shape at his age as I do at 60. I tell them that. They freak out. She comes over and hugs me. She and I concur that yes, men absolutely should wear dresses, especially when they have beautiful legs and bodies to show us.

The ease with which we converse about such things should clue you in to what type of party this was. And what type of partygoers we had here. I love this crowd. They are pretty much hetero, but they have such a good, healthy attitude.

And they wear dresses! What more could you ask for in the way of family values?

The deejay's assistant is named K, a lean asian person who at first I assume is a girl. Guess again. He is so fetchingly androgynous that I spend much of the morning going back and forth on him. Is he or isn't she? I have rarely seen such a person who puts out fem vibes and masculine vibes in such equal doses. I am very intrigued, but I have to go up and apologize to K when he gets a free moment.

"I thought you were a woman," I say to him somewhat sheepishly. He laughs, obviously this has happened before to him and he is not bothered by it.

By the time I prepare to leave, it's early afternoon now. Quite a party. I decide to ride back through the city, and along the way I bring K, and A too, my older fellow from Cape Cod. He seems to harbor no unhappy feelings about the night before.

The three of us encounter a thick drizzle on the drive back thru Marin into San Francisco. We have to pull over to figure out how the windshield wipers work in my rental car. A jokes that the collective IQs must be pretty high in the car, but you'd never know it. It takes us about ten minutes of messing around with the knobs before we can turn the damn wipers on. Some situations a college education just does not prepare you for in real life.

We drop A off first, I get out to share a quiet moment and hug with him. He hugs me in such a loving, affectionate way that the longing seems to flow out of every pore in his body. Suddenly it hits me: he's 62 and Jewish, he probably wishes he were my partner D, who is 46 and also Jewish, I have described him already to A. There is so much feeling in this hug, and for a moment I start feeling sad for A.

Later, once home, A writes me an email in which he apologizes for not having the equipment to satisfy someone like me, and that he is more affectionate than sexual. The latter I had already realized the night before, the former was not true. But I did not correct him on that. Why do guys assume it comes down to the "equipment?" His equipment looked fine from where I was, it was his hesitation that made it difficult.

Later, when I tell my partner D all this over the phone, his reaction is, "Oh, sounds like he was scared of you." I suddenly realize then he's probably right.

It also reinforces for me why I am with a younger man. I am one of those women who just never saw the appeal in having a guy who's a lot older than me. D is someone who harbors more interest in sex than anyone, male or female, I have ever met in my life. He says I have absolutely spoiled him now for younger women. Good.

Maybe I can still count on him for a few more good pokes when I'm 90.

- - - - - - - -

This column continues describing the best sex party I have attended yet, in the north bay area this past November.

Having left my bickering couple, I wander my way down to the dining area. The food is great, and there is plenty of it. This is a crowd that has a huge appetite, for food and sex it would appear. As I nibble away, I start talking with an older guy, B.

"How's it going for you," he inquires. I tell him my tales of the evening. He is amused, and ready to take me on. "Well, I'd like a shot at getting you off," he says.

Off we go to the small room off the middle landing of the staircase. A delectable asian girl and her white boyfriend are going at it on the other futon in the room. "I've been eyeing this woman for a while," he says to me. "And now I've got her." And so you have, I think to myself. She ain't going anywhere anytime soon. Nor should she. She is absolutely fetching, with a cute little fetish outfit complete with black motorcycle cap.

There are three Asian girls here tonight, and they are the hottest things here, female-wise.

Before playing with B, I pop into the bathroom for a quick rinse off. Towels, soap and other bath supplies are generous here, and players are encouraged to wash along the route.

B proves the charm for me on this night, as he gets me off by going down on me. Let me add here that women, especially gay women, like to make fun of guys when they try this. The opinion seems to be that men know little or nothing at all about muff diving. Probably gay boys say the same thing about straight women sucking dick.

In the interests of fair play, I have to say this is not the case in my life, at all. Most men I have found love giving head, and with a little guidance they can get to be quite good at it. I don't hold the assumption that, just because a chick is a chick, she automatically knows her way around my local fun spot. Everybody needs training is my view, because everybody is capable. Some are just more capable than others.

Once he's finished that task, B puts on a condom and starts fucking me. He's at it a while before he realizes he's worn himself out on this night. He's already come once in another "scene." His eyes are just bigger than his capacity at this point. With a sigh, we break it off, laughing, we've both had a good time.

During the evening there is a BDSM introductory session in the mini-dungeon they have constructed in a downstairs room. The hottest of the three asian girls is there, she is the assistant "sub" to the guy who's running this demo.

I volunteer my thin white ass to the proceedings. Maybe now I can find out how you're supposed to whip someone who is really lean, like I am. You can count my ribs sort of leanness. I voice my concerns to the hot asian girl, I especially want her to whip me. She reassures me that my concerns are also hers. Her name is R. Must be a nickname. Actually she looks almost exactly like Michelle Yeoh, the older asian woman in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Yum yum. I wish my partner D were here to witness this. He'll hear all the gory details of course, but he would love to see this in person.

My asian girl is quite accomplished, she demonstrates to the people watching where to hit me (stay away from the kidney regions). It feels interesting, because she varies the pace, changes the force of the blows, sometimes puts a hand on me instead of the flog. It's a uniquely flowing experience that actually feels quite stimulating. The keenest part of the experience was in anticipating the next blow. You're there, you're hovering on the edge, waiting. And then it comes.

I thank her profusely. Next morning, we trade email addresses. Among her other occupations, R paints wild designs onto blue jeans. She's wearing a pair of them at the post-party brunch. I should have asked her if flogging people helps her pay more bills.

- - - - - - -

In November I attended what may be the best sex party of them all. It was held up in Marin County, California. Home of the Hot Tub, as the first President Bush liked to term it. It was pretty far afield from where I live, but the word of mouth from female friends was excellent. I felt I had to attend at least one of these parties.

The crowd at this party is exuberant, upbeat and quite into the playing. It has a somewhat new age feel to it, which tended to make me hesitant about going at first. But one of the founders assured me I would not have to sing "Kumbaya," or some other such nonsense. Nobody tried to convert me to anything, I wasn't preached to at all. I mention this to indicate that their heads were somewhat in the clouds, but the action certainly took place here on earth.

The house is in a somewhat rural area, set off a winding road, on a large rectangular property space. The Parking God, as he is called, directs me into the grassy backyard, where partygoers will be asked to park. He is a volunteer at this event. You can ask to volunteer as a way of getting into the party for free. Usually they require an hour or so of work.

The house is rustic, comfortable and cosy but with enough space for the crowd coming here on this night in November.

Single women here for the first time are allowed in for free. This was a strong selling point for me, being on a limited budget, and being from a point much further south in the area. I had gas and a rental car for this night, and I swung by along the route north to visit several old friends I had not seen for a while. Basically, I planned a trip with lots of things to make the trek worth my while.

I have high expectations for this party. I am hoping I can finally get some girlie action at this one.

The back door is used for this event, and when you first come in you're actually in the kitchen, off to the right is the dining area, where a table laden with luscious-looking food has been spread. Wine is allowed here also, an unusual thing for a sex party. But they assume you can handle it, and it is a proper assumption, given this crowd.

Down the hall on the main floor to the left is a white-carpeted living room, where the dee jays for the evening are setting up their trade. The music tonight is the best I have heard at a party, although the Black Sheets is nearly an equal. We hear electronica, world beat, techno and related kinds that are meant to sustain an upbeat mood.

The place is cool at first, not enough people are here yet to warm it up. But that changes rather quickly. It seems I have hardly had time to munch on a few goodies and chat with a few of the guys and girls when the place does fill up. I decide to change into my skimpy leather fetish outfit, collar, harness, straps. It's warm enough now.

The socializing goes on in this main area. Food stays in the kitchen and dining room areas. People dance in the living room. At the other end is a staircase, with a small bedroom on the landing to the left. It's cosy and pleasantly dim, with several futons. A play room.

Further up the stairs is the main play area, a large room with a smaller room at the far end. This is the top floor in the place. You have a double bed or two, single ones, a massage table, plush bedding where lots of people can play. A fake animal skin covers a corner of the thick carpet. That space appeals to me. I check all these rooms out early.

Not much seems to happen until right after the invocation, the circling, as they call it, which takes place around 10 or 10:30. A good way to bring all the people together. It turns out nearly half the room is made up of newcomers. We all huddle on the carpet, or back against the walls, as one of the hostesses comes out to greet us. She speaks succinctly but easily, and I like hearing her. Tears fill her eyes as she tells us about the death of her python the day before. He was just found dead. Apparently he was quite a unique creation in this household. He would slide up to you and gently lay his head on your forearm. She was a snakecharmer, and the bond had been close. At the brunch the morning after the party, when I saw the woman, I went up to offer my condolences, and to see if she needed a hug. That she declined, but she appreciated the thought. She started to get a little teary-eyed again, and so did I. My friend in Concord had to put down one of her cats the day before. It was a bad week for the animals, I said.

At the end of the circling ceremony, our hostess became her warm and humorous self again when she said, basically, "Now go out there and fuck yourselves silly."

Which we all proceeded to do, in rather short time. I hooked up first with an older guy, A, visiting from Cape Cod. He was staying with friends in San Francisco who were coming to the party. Lucky for him, he got invited along.

A is early 60s, tall, salt and pepper hair and small beard, Jewish and humorous. He seems like a nice guy. Unfortunately he makes a statement that comes back to haunt me.

"I really like to see that my partner is happy," he tells me, or words close to it. I should know enough now to know that, whenever a guy says that to you upfront, something's already amiss. I should run away quickly. Isn't the girl always the center of attention and concern? So why does he have to tell me that? The fact he feels he does alarms me. I suspect problems over this have arisen before for a guy like A.

Unfortunately his concern was the only thing that rose. A had never been to a play party before, and as so many of us find out, it can be a somewhat overwhelming experience, with a world of distractions.

A was overwhelmed. He seemed very interested in me, but his body was not cooperating, try as we could. After a bit of this, I decided I needed to move along. I got up and mumbled something about needing to get a drink of water.

As I am roaming around the place, a thirty-something guy approaches me. "Oohh, how come I didn't see YOU before?" he says. "You're gorgeous, I love those muscles. Do you want to come and join me and my girlfriend? She just loves playing with the women," he says to me.

I should have said, "I'd rather hear that from her." But I feel hopeful. The people here appear to be what they say they are. I assume he knows by now what his friend likes. Off we go to find her.

She is quite nice. About my size, shoulder length brunette hair, nice white bod. We end up 69 ing each other as he watches and helps out along the way.

Does anyone EVER get off with 69-ing? I've asked this over the years, and seems like nobody ever gets off, but they like the situation. And we all know, don't we, how cool it is to watch that go on.
But it is distracting.

One of the things I like about sex parties is that you trade off the certainty of your own partner at home with the newness and curiosity of exploring unfamiliar partners at a play venue. They are not as sure as my partner, but that's okay, if I can train then and bring them along. What I get as my part of the tradeoff is the adventuring that comes from playing with a new person.

This couple are fun, the guy turns out to be a really great smoocher. For some reason, I find the kissing really draws me tonight. But this pair unfortunately have brought their baggage to the party. ALL of their baggage, it would appear.

An undercurrent of backbiting is going on between them all the while we are playing. This proves distracting, because it is apparent they can't quite fully get into the playing because of it. She seems concerned he won't have enough stamina left for her. He reassures her he does, even for when they go back to their local motel. (Since this is a somewhat rural area about an hour or so north of San Francisco, a lot of partygoers stay in motels around the area).

Eventually the vibe just seems too unpleasant for me to want to continue with them. Time for another drink of water. Off I go, feeling a little annoyed but also happy to finally play with another woman.

On the upstairs landing, I see another guy, youngish fellow, seemingly by himself although he is back in his street clothes.

"Are you looking for trouble?" I ask him humorously. Maybe it scares him, because he courteously declines ("No, I'm okay," he says). It occurs to me later he's probably going home now. I don't know who his partner is.

Most of the people here have come as couples, or so it would appear. They play as couples and many of them either trade partners or invite others into the gathering.

The people at this party are the most attractive ones I have seen at any of the parties. It's their looks and their attitudes that resonant with me. They seem almost joyous as they go about their playing. With much good humor and warmth.

Sometimes, at other parties, the crowd strikes me initially as so forlorn that I am often ready to just split right then.

This crowd never made me feel that way. In fact, I end up staying the night at the house, as we are invited to do. It was that comfortable a vibe to be around.

TO BE CONTINUED

- - - - - -

Since I've been with my partner D for fifteen years now, people are curious why I decided to jump back into the Woman Thing again. After having been absent for some years from feeling a need to be linked with other women. Frankly, I thought I was done with women. The last experience had been so unrewarding and treacherous to my mental health as well that I never thought I would feel a need to visit this place again. It had all been burned out of me.

But I guess I was wrong. D says he noticed subtle changes in me, he had always hoped I would try to find a woman friend. But I did not realize it fully until the month of September, 2003.

A series of events happened in that rather short space of time that brought me back.

Firstly, I reconnected with a dear friend I have known since the late 60s. She has turned 70 now, and is in many respects more of a real mother to me than my own mother. We were never intimate, but the opportunity did come our way, once. But we witnessed the comings and goings, mostly goings, of other people in our lives. Finding her again made me suddenly hungry to find other women who could be part of my life.

Seeing the film "Mulholland Drive" again also reawakened my interest. The film seemed to encapsulate all the complicated, fearful emotions I had regarding my own sex. I just could not stay away.

The deciding event was my backpacking trip into the eastern Sierras, something I have done for over thirty years now. This trip brought forth a number of interesting events.

Something about that altitude, I guess. I found myself dreaming odd dreams.

I was in a seafood market of some sort, looking at the shellfish section. Several women were working there. I was fascinated by the crabs for some reason. They were crawling all over one another, in a jumbled heap of limbs. The women were definitely in charge here. Their energy pervaded the place. That was all there was to the dream, but I woke up feeling charged, as if I had just had an orgasm.

"I'm in an all-girl orgy," I said to myself, as soon as I woke up the next morning. All those crabs, so round, their organs safely protected by their shells. It's the sign of Cancer, and it is a female sign in astrology. And to me, crabs are very female. The idea of a herd of women crawling all over one another....well, I know my little mind was quite boggled by the thought.

A few months later, I in fact met someone who turned me on to a lesbian sex club in L.A. Small world, I thought. Those crabs are going to get a workout yet.

As happy as I was to dream such a dream, the backpack trip also warned me of the perils involved. I remember hiking along a stream, it was nearly noon, the day was quite warm already. I looked into the water, and found it very inviting. Should I set my pack down, strip my clothes off, and just dive in, I wondered. No one was around for miles, probably. I studied the waters to find out where I should dive, how shallow I should dive, how to aim my body through the rocks so I could reach the deeper water, where I wanted to be.

Later, it dawned on me that this scene was a perfect metaphor for how I felt about women. They are so inviting, but they are surrounded by rocks and other dangers. I have to be careful, or I will dash myself on the rocks.

I did not jump in. Instead I resumed my hiking. At the top of the pass, another odd but wonderful event took place. I saw someone coming up the trail. It was another woman. A woman all alone.

Since I have been backpacking, I have never seen another solitary female on the trail. Ever. I was completely floored. And she looked like something out of a dream. She was very tall, and even thinner than I am. She was also a blonde, with a shock of fine long hair pulled back. Her face was tanned and weathered like mine, obviously a girl who had spent much of her life outdoors. Probably mid 40s, Scandinavian, I said, judging by her look. Her English was quite accented. Swedish. I run across lots of Swedes. They take one look at me and say, "Oh, she's a real Swede." We end up talking like we've known each other forever. She reminded me a lot of the Swedish woman I had met and worked with in film school. With that air of reliability, steadfastness and practical intelligence. Same look, same accent.

Right away she and I seemed to recognize each other as kindred spirits. We both stopped, set our packs down and chatted for about fifteen minutes there. Two scrawny-assed blondes up above the world.

The usual talk. Where have you been, where are you headed, what does your map say. We bitched about the new policy that hikers must now lug bear cannisters up the mountain to keep their food stash in, so the bears can't figure it out and get too familiar with the human crowd.

We both agreed that travelling companions were nice, we weren't dyed-in-the wool lone wolf types, not quite yet. But they had to be the right companions. Nearly perfect, it turned out, if she and I were to gamble on going out with them.

I studiously avoided the obvious questions, like what's your name, where are you from. I did not want to know. I felt this was such a special meeting that I didn't want to gum it up with tiresome, noisy questions.

Her presence was enough for me.

Our meeting wound down. We both knew when it was time to move on. And move on we did.

From the vantage point of now, two years later, I look back on that trip with an air of amazement. Can't exactly say I was touched by the Hand of God.

But certainly his Old Lady got her fingers into the pie.

And here I am to tell you the tale.

- - - - - - -

Lately I have been fascinated by trans people. They seem to be coming at me from out of the woodwork. I am still confused about the term though, sometimes I refer to my favorite people as "she-males."

The first she-male I saw was at a Carol Queen party a few months ago that I attended on my own. They staged it at San Francisco's The Citadel, a BDSM club that I wrote about already in another column.

The party was well under way when in walks a group of rather nice-looking women. They were all tall, well-built, and one of them in particular caught my eye. She was gorgeous, her chest was nice sized and very natural looking. But her body looked quite strong, and she just had this energy about her that...well, your eyes just went right to this one.

Later as I watched them playing together on the main floor, I happened to see "her" from behind, fucking one of the lovely girls from behind. That's when I saw her nice-looking set of balls hanging down.

"Holy shit," I said to myself, in utter amazement. It's a she-male! I nearly lost it. No wonder I was picking up on the male energy. I was absolutely entranced.

Her name is Sara, and apparently she is quite a regular on this circuit. She and I exchange looks later in the evening. I am heading out, in my skimpy leather fetish outfit, and she's busying herself with another girl. I pause, she pauses, we make eye contact for the longest moment. Does she think I am a tranny perhaps? I look really lean and have muscular definition that could almost be a male body.

Later, I regret not going over and introducing myself. I should have, but this Sara seems to run non-stop throughout the evening. Catching her at a slow moment would be like finding time for a high tea onboard the Titanic before it goes down.

Next week I go onto Craigslist and post an ad looking for Sara. I am hooked. I would love to meet her again. I think I will, and probably soon.

The other trans person I have met recently is probably not deserving of the title. I believe he started life as a male, and that is still the case today. But I am not fully sure. There is a lot of confusion in my head about trans people, I am still sorting it out.

Hopefully I will get to know this one person better, his name is K. I met him at a party recently in the north bay. K was not there to play, he came to help out with the music that night. He is about my height, 5'6" or so, slim, with longish black hair and features that are a hybrid of asian mixes, mostly Filipino.

His manner was charming, I felt him to be an unusual person I wanted to talk with more. But as we conversed I found my mind moving back and forth, between male and female, female and male. Some moments I picked up definite male energy, other moments I could have sworn I was dealing with a woman.

The woman side won out. I finally settled - and rather easily, I thought - on K being female. Then someone else, male, tells me otherwise.

So at an opportune moment, I go up to K and apologize that I had thought him a female. He laughs, no problem at all.

K rides back with me and A into San Francisco. After we drop off A at the place he is staying, K and I can talk more freely.

"So, you're bisexual?" he inquires, to which I answer in the affirmative. K lives right around the corner from Osento, a funky women's bathhouse in the Mission District. I am headed there next. K bemoans the fact he cannot come in with me. Again, the reality hits me that THIS IS A MAN. I need reminding. I don't feel I am confused, I am just getting the lay of the land.

K tells me she is moving in this week with her girlfriend, who has a profile on Tribe.com. I go and check her out, she is small and dark too. They must cut a neat figure when they go out together.

The gender fluidity of K is mindblowing to me. I love it. I love it that I can move, from moment to moment, even within the same moment, from feeling she is male, to feeling she is female. In one continuous freeflowing circuitry of pure energy.

Am I going to see this person again? I hope so, we traded emails and spoke of getting together soon.

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We're exploring a large house where the Black Sheets crowd is holding a Saturday night sex party. My partner D wants to get to the room with the "action," so we wander off towards the staircase. Usually the hard-core action at these events takes place in the lower regions.

On the way I discover there is a neat fireman's pole, cast right down from the ceiling into the lower floor. It's a fun thing for those who want to get to the basement in a hurry instead of taking the stairs.

As I am dressed in my black leather fetish outfit, perhaps I feel emboldened to play Tarzan. I am nearly naked, and, well, it just feels right, mom. So I leap for the pole and nearly rip my shoulder off trying to neatly slide through the hole. D follows me down in, and suddenly we realize we're in the main "play" area.

It's got a different vibe to it, the lighting is much softer, with shades of red. You can almost smell that this is where the action is.

They have a small jail cell, a leather swing is suspended from the ceiling, there is a doctor's examining table, complete with IV hookups and a nearby sink and cabinets to add to the effect. And of course, a number of mattresses lying about. A large four-poster bed is in the adjacent room, and we head for that.

So far I have not seen any women here that I would want to hook up with. I had hoped to find this, especially at a Black Sheets party. But the large majority of the women seem hetero, and they are huge women. Not my style at all. So D and I figure we'll play with ourselves for starters.

We have discussed this ahead of time actually. I have written elsewhere about the need to kind of plan your night. When we first attended a party here, we did not do that. It proved a mistake. I was so distracted by all the goings-on that I couldn't focus enough to orgasm. No matter what D tried. A rather unusual situation for us personally, but not all that uncommon at a sex party, so I am told.

Some manuals actually exist that deal with how to be at a sex party, and they advise not setting too high a goal for yourself the first time. Don't expect that you are going to be "working the room" in exhaustive fashion. Set modest ambitions for yourself. I would agree with that.

D and I play on the four-poster, which for some reason is not occupied. Other parts of the room are, so one of the things a person needs to focus on is concentrating with a lot of activity/noise/music going on nearby. D goes down on me, and to the alternating strains of Arabic trance and an operatic aria, he gets me off. His plans include getting fucked later on by a guy, so he is happy to hold himself in reserve until that moment.

The Black Sheets is by far the party with the best music. Very appropriate to the night's play, with strains of techno, world beat, electronica, and yes, even shades of opera. The music absolutely sets a mood here tonight.

Several single guys hover around the four-poster, stroking themselves as they watch us. Are you prepared to be Eye Candy? That's another element one factors in at a sex party. And the single guys. Well, be warned this is one party where they let in the single guys, and there are a lot of them usually. I've heard gay women who have attended these parties complain about how the guys like to get close and watch girlie play (when it happens). So if you - as a female - can deal with guys who are nearly salivating at you, the piece of raw meat among the Dobermans, why come on down! A lot of women as you would imagine do not like that setting. Another reason why we have not seen much girl-on-girl play here. It draws an immediate crowd, you practically have to be an exhibitionist or a cockteaser extraordinaire to carry it off.

A fairly young-looking guy wanders our way, D thinks he is Israeli, judging by his name. He seems rather mellow, and very interested in joining us.

D smiles at him and says, "If you've got a condom, you can fuck her." The guy disappears somewhere and reappears a short time later, condom attached. It is still a trip for me to fuck new guys, I am really starting to enjoy this, because D really enjoys watching. In the end though, I think it brings you back to your partner, because you are always, consciously or not, making comparisons. It's practically unavoidable. And it feels like you're balancing two scenes, your regular sex life, and your new arrival here tonight. Almost like a two for one experience. Rather delectable. I'm enjoying how he feels different inside of me than D, I notice his rhythm and how he moves. For some reason a cooking analogy springs to mind. Tonight we've having sole meuniere, last night it was osso bucco. How do they taste alike, how are they different, etcetera etcetera. I enjoy this kind of shopping around.

On the floor to the left of us lies a mattress with a strong-looking white guy busying himself with a really nice-looking Asian woman, probably early 30s. They are spending so much time together that I imagine they must have arrived as a couple. Or else they got acquainted really fast. We find ourselves watching them, do we want to hook up with them, do they want to hook up with anyone? She is the fittest looking woman here, besides me.
But they seem quite engrossed in their own scene. The guy later on seems to glance around the room, attempting eye contact with other males? It looks that way, but further hook-ups do not take place.

Later, D and I migrate to the smallish jail cell. We like hanging out here, it's a little corner tucked away from the flow of traffic where we won't get stepped on. But we can still watch the action. D gets reamed good by a burly guy in leather who wanders by.

But this I wrote about already in a separate column. God knows, I hate to bore you all twice.

Suffice to say, the Black Sheets is just about our favorite party. It has a queer sensibility we enjoy, and between D and I, we manage to find just about all we want. Minus a few fitter women. But that may happen, someday over the rainbow.



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