setting words to voice

I don't know when I started craving butch. I came out the instant I fell in love with a girl. There was no processing, no hesitating, no wavering back and forth between straight and gay and not. I fell in love with a girl and then I became gay; not the other way around. But at the tender age of young nineteen I could only see the feminine, had not yet learned to appreciate the masculine and I was all "I want a girl who looks like a girl" and my girlfriends were all like, "Me too! Me too!" And then I found out they couldn't screw. And this was very disconcerting for me, as I am a complete and utter femme with a high sex drive, an insatiable libido and a desire to fuck until my skin gets raw and my lips are bruised when I check my neck and collarbone for hickeys in the rearview mirror the next morning. If I possessed such a passion for pussy, then why didn't they? Possibly we were too compatible, especially when it came to what we wanted. We both wanted to be taken, dominated, topped until we toppled over, and we both wanted the other to do it first. So after two serious girlfriends who neglected me into monotony with our half-assed love and a handful of casual fucks that never made me come (including one polyamorous couple composed of one very intelligent man, his very sexy girlfriend and my plan to steal her away) my mind began to wander.

Maybe I was watching "The L Word" and I liked the way Shane topped her conquests, loved the sexual chemistry and compatibility between her and Carmen, loved when they played the 'too hot' game and Carmen clad in boy shorts and a wifebeater with no bra straddled Shane's lap and made up the rules but you still knew Shane was in control. I started recognizing the differences between women, between women who loved women, between masculine and feminine and butch and boi and femme, soft and hard, top and bottom. Dyke and lesbian. My six-month celibacy and long list of sexual unfulfillments had brought my core desires into focus. I wanted to meet my polar opposite. I wanted a brief-wearing butch in men's jeans to find me in the city, at Henrietta's or Cattyshack or even just on the street, to come close enough to let me know she was wearing cologne in an open indulgence of her masculinity though she had no desire to actually become a man. I wanted her to fuck me that night, make love to me the next, and continue doing one or the other, repeatedly, for the next two, three, ten years. She would be the Polo Sport cologne to my Victoria's Secret "Very Sexy" perfume, the cargo shorts to my lacey skirts, the boots to my high heels. The mostly-top to my mostly-bottom, but the sometimes-bottom to my sometimes-top. When I found her I locked her in the cross hairs of my target and saw nothing but red. Red shirt pulled casually over toned, tattooed arms, red label on the bottle of beer she was absentmindedly stroking, not yet noticing, red strawberry in my fruity red mixed drink. When she looked my way my hands began to shake; I could feel the chemistry across the room, and until that moment I had no idea differences could render two individuals so fucking compatible.