DEDICATION
This book is for all the out, open bis and especially closeted bisexuals, bi-curious and bi-questioning people of the world, and to those people who simply find guilty pleasure in reading bisexual erotica. I'd also like to dedicate this book to the members of my newsgroup, A Bi-Friendly Place, which can be found on the Web at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ABi-FriendlyPlace, and to my group moderator, Sabrina Qedesha who so graciously helps me with the upkeep of this group.
A Bi-Friendly Place is a safe, comfortable and casual way to meet other bisexuals, to discuss bi issues, to share your stories, to ask questions, and most importantly to find community. I invite you to join us online to share your thoughts, issues, doubts and fears. Maybe you can even help another person learn to feel comfortable about their own sexuality. Remember, we are here for you; you are not alone!
CONTENTS
BEING ME
A GARDEN CALLED YOU
CIRQUE DU TROIS
ONLY IN DREAMS
EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
A WARDROBE OF SOULS
GO YOUR OWN WAY
LAST CALL
PISSING IN THE MEN'S ROOM
THE ADVENTURES OF A BI SLUT DOLLY
MY OWN TWISTED URGES
AM I A SWINGER? YOU TELL ME:
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEING ME
Lipstick lingers on my lips
from a boy who kissed me
wearing the latest Mac
Boots lined up by my front door
belong to the girl
who put me to bed too drunk last night
Ed is gay
and Bill is not
and Jenny is hopelessly hetero
Where am I in the middle of minds fixed
so rigidly on sexuality and ego?
Not lost like a little lamb...
I'm just always tiptoeing over your lines
I am not a mistaken identity
and I do not have to choose
Am I the one who's so confused?
I know who I am.
I'm proud to be me.
Don't try to rope me?
Never fence me in.
Play with me,
I'm lots of fun!
Please, don't be afraid of me...
Can't you see I'm just like you?
But, I'm also just like him, and her,
Why does it matter so much
"who I love?
or who I fuck
or want to fuck
or how I love to you?
A GARDEN CALLED YOU
"What's in a name? ... lots," I mutter to no one, peeling off, then tossing my wet towel across the wood floor, spooking the cat, as I lie sprawled across my big queen bed, wet and naked, skin still sunburn-warm from the bath. "Chaka is just the wrong name for a white chick," I think for the millionth time, damning my mother for naming me after a pop star. "Especially for a skinny white chick, with small breasts. I should have been named Anne or Mary."
I grab a little handful of my pale flesh, holding a tiny tit in my hand and I wonder what it would feel like to wrap my fingers around a meaty, black breast, full and creamy, dark brown nipples ... maybe nipples the color of burgundy wine. I start to play with my own nipple, watching it grow tighter, pulling away from the areola into a tight, little pearly nubbin. I think of my hands touching a myriad of black women's bodies: pert tits with perky nipples, ripe like raisins, ready to pop into my mouth; a large pair of pendulous beauties attached to a mammoth woman who'd smother me, and my lips, with soft, seductive flesh.
I think of all the black women I've known. Not too many, actually, but I've almost always been attracted to each one, in a different way. I knew a girl in college, Martha. She was a rocker, and I thought she was the coolest chick I'd ever met. She worked in a record store, and knew everything about anything that had to do with hip music. Martha was dark brown, chunky, pointy breasted, and big bellied. She still managed to squeeze into skin-tight jeans, and apparently didn't mind the curves she showed off, regardless of her weight. I think of one particular night, after we'd had drinks at The Club, something she'd said made me laugh, and we were both just roaring, and then giggling, and finally chuckling all over again at the silliness of our private joke. In one brief moment our eyes locked, and I just knew we were so happy to be together, drunk and stupidly laughing. Oh, how I wanted to unsnap her jeans and bury myself in that beautiful belly of hers!
)
