My last entry reminded me that I somehow missed posting an excerpt from Take Me There. So here’s a little taste. Consider this a continuation of my answer.
There’s something about her that has quickly gained my trust. Something about the way she holds me—my hand on the street, my body in bed—it’s charming and chivalrous. Something about the way she makes her way through the world, whether alone or with me by her side; exuding inward confidence, outward audacity. It’s all so comfortable and natural with her, even encouraging. She enjoys existing in a duality—challenging masculinity while continually tugging on the boundaries of the box labeled “female”—and I enjoy eroticizing everything that makes her genderqueer.
She has this edge about her—not completely hard yet deeply masculine. This is the edge where my lust resides. She is not exactly my opposite but rather my complement: thuddy biker boots to my strappy Fluevog heels, bien morena to my slightly lighter hue, the curve of her biceps to that of my hips. Her masculinity takes my high femme to greater heights. Our complementary natures play into each other, coloring outside of the lines. We look real good together. More importantly, we feel exquisite.
* * *
“Go put on your uniform.” Before I can even protest, drop to my knees, or do anything to distract her (she’s getting to know me a little too well), she gives me that stern look that always makes me weak (obedient) and raises her eyebrows with the Am-I-really–going-to-have-to-say-it-again? look and I’m up, heading toward the closet.
She’s creative as hell when it comes to this stuff and quick as fuck, I can tell her mind has taken off into a full sprint as she leaves the room to collect whatever props she can find that will help bring the swiftly mounting fantasy in her head to life. She looked into my mind through my body’s divulgences, revealing my secret, immediately running with it, never hesitating for a second. If she had, I would have feared judgment; instead I feel completely at ease, protected and cherished. Her presence and demeanor make this place safe for me. Of course she wants to go there with me.
Wondering just what she’ll come up with, I finish pulling off my red lacy thong (definitely not part of the uniform) and I’m about to switch it out with the white cotton panties when it hits me and I slide the more scandalous version back on. Sure, we’ve played around with the naughty schoolgirl fantasy plenty…but never before have we done any specifically Catholic play…and I have a feeling this defiance might just bring it to another level.
When my lover reenters the room, dressed in head-to-toe black with a white “collar”—Where the hell did she get that?—I’m taken aback and only slightly scandalized that with her short, dark hair slicked back like that and her confident, broad-shouldered stance, she takes on a surprising resemblance to Padre José Manuel, the priest of my childhood who insisted that we all call him Padre Manolo. This role-play wouldn’t work for me if it weren’t for the queer masculinity she brings to it. Never once had I thought of Padre Manolo in an erotic way, but because it is my lover playing at this, the role of priest is suddenly turned on its head, queered, and therefore, exciting. Since she already looks the part, I decide to go with it, excitedly running up to her, calling out, “Padre Manolo! Padre Manolo!”
I’m met with a sinister grin. “No, my child. Your beloved Manolito is not here today. I will have to be the one who hears your confession.”
“Yes, my dear, your confession. I noted your absence at Mass this morning and yet, here you are, standing before me in good health. I presume you have much to confess.”