Scout and I were two butches that were in love and couldn’t keep our hands off of one another. She and I’d been shacking up for a year now, but the bloom was not off the blossom, so to speak. Age makes for passion and the experience to know how to act on it. We were both over 50 with decades of sexual intrigue under our belts, and had a heated sex life, full of intrigue and mystery. One of our earliest surprises had been when I discovered that I wasn’t only a bottom, but I was also a switch. It was all Scout’s fault and it happened early on when we were flirting and trading what turned us on. She told me that she loved having her hair pulled during sex, but neglected to mention that the slightest tug of her silver pompadour sent her directly into subspace. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.
“I don’t understand!” Scout’s blue eyes got rounder and rounder as we snuggled together in bed. She looked so sweetly vulnerable. That lost small animal look in her eyes combined with her come drying on my wrist made me fall even a little more in love. I felt like a paternal, ferocious mountain lion protecting a fawn from the big, bad wolf.