Just to get it out of the way, I’m going to tell you a little bit about me so you can forget about me. I am more than old enough to get medicare and social security, for which I am deeply grateful. I am a woman. I am white. I am gay.
Although my livelihood came from editing other people's words, now that I have retired I find I really enjoy telling my own story with my own words without the editing. I am stocky. Okay, more than stocky. I have short-cropped, thick gray hair, fading blue eyes, and I’m about five feet six inches tall, although I seem to be shrinking.
From a young age I knew I was a lesbian, but for many years I tried really hard not to be. When I found a man I thought I could make it work with, I tried to convince myself that I enjoyed his strength. It gave mine a rest. But after about two and half weeks, I realized that domination was in his DNA and being a doting mother was not in mine. But as soon as I vowed I would try again to love a man, along would come a soft, round, delicious, spirited soul wrapped up in a lady’s package.
Nothing can compare to loving a woman. When I caress her cheek, if she closes her eyes and leans her head into my hand, I melt at the tenderness. When my hand explores feminine curves and mounds, if she arches her back and softly moans, I ache with the immense joy of bringing her pleasure. If she laughs, or whistles, or plants a flower, I want to be her witness. If she cries or pounds her fist in anger, I want to be her confidant. It’s just who I am.
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