I have been sleeping with this guy whose girlfriend has been out of town a lot lately. He spent most of this past weekend at my place fucking me and watching prison documentaries on basic cable. On Sunday afternoon, I fixed us some ribeyes and mashed potatoes.  I think my kale-chomping lesbian roommate is grossed out by our heterosexual vibe.  She rolls her eyes as she bustles by us on her way to the kitchen, “Sorry to interrupt your anachronistic rockabilly den of romance, guys.”

“I’m just like, yo, bitch, sit there, keep me company, braid my hair.”

It was good to know that at least he was nice to his bitches.

My roommate used to be high femme and sleep with a lot of trans guys. After a while, though, she got sick of that scene, went deep lez and started wearing kaftans.  Now she hates all the “tranny chasers” and shit-talks them at every opportunity.  Converts make the best zealots.

She is particularly disdainful of the femmes who work at the local women-centric sex shop.  Her ex-boyfriend used to work there and she felt perpetually threatened by their relentless sexual advances toward him.

“They’re like prison women,” she griped, “They’ll throw themselves at anything with short hair.”

A long time ago I dated a trans guy who had spent some time in prison.  The cops railroaded him for fighting back when he got queer-bashed at a bar in Louisiana.  He was housed in a women’s facility for more than a year and I was surprised to hear how easily he adapted to prison life.

“When you’re in prison, either you have bitches or you are somebody’s bitch.”

“How do you tell the difference?” I asked.

“You flip your pocket out. And you’re like, ‘hey, bitch, hold on to my pocket.’ And if she does, then she’s your bitch.”

“What did you make your bitches do?”

“I’m just like, yo, bitch, sit there, keep me company, braid my hair.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

It was good to know that at least he was nice to his bitches.

Even while my steak-and-potatoes man is fucking me, my mind wanders to my ex-con ex. Tell me you own my pussy, I beg him. Tell me I belong to you.

He likes me to fight back a little. I have a hard time not digging my nails into his back. I got in trouble the last time because I left marks. He told me that his girlfriend was livid, and they got into a fight about it. She’s a yeller.

“Fuck her! I know exactly what she was doing! She was marking her territory!”  When he recounts the story, I plead innocence and mock her paranoia. I tell him You’re just so hot, and I can’t help myself.  But really, she’s got my number.