Oh, femme tops, how I love you, lust for you — worship you, even. I’ve been with tops of every gay persuasion, but in my heart of hearts (and my crotch of crotches), none hold a rosewater-scented candle to the femme variety. After all, was it not the great lesbian novelist Ann Bannon who proclaimed, and I quote, “She who wields both strap-on harness and stiletto heels is a Goddess amongst women?” Was it not? No, it wasn’t. I said that. It was me.
Femmes are glorious. We take something society deems vulnerable and weak (femininity) and turn it into a strength that defies the male gaze. It’s beauty that exists outside the straight world’s parameters, and within queer femme expression and identity, we exist on a spectrum of sharp and soft—sharpness as nails, eyeliner wings, brows, and heels; softness as curves, lips, and hair. While some femmes embody either or neither, it’s the combination of those two traits I crave. It’s lipstick prints and bite welts intermingling across my tits. It’s feeling smooth skin graze against mine every time I bounce on her cock. It’s a toothy grin garlanded by brightly painted lips and a perfectly manicured hand around my throat.
The roots of my Power Femme Thirst are deep and multitudinous. Even before I could understand how gay I was (turns out, very!), I found myself drawn to women in media who were beautiful, but different. Sometimes they were just strong, confident women in charge (Storm from X-Men, Ms. Bellum from The Powerpuff Girls, Lucy Liu in anything). Others were bold but treated by those around them as weird or “too much” (Miss Piggy, Morticia Addams). Others, such as Ursula or Maleficent, were outright villainous and, as femme top extraordinaire Mistress Dahlia Snow so eloquently states, “always had the best makeup, the best eyebrows, and did whatever they wanted.” My own desire to be a pretty person’s plaything has been a foundation of my gay-4-femme lifestyle ever since I watched the psychic, bitch-banged Gym Leader Sabrina transform Brock and Misty into dolls on Pokémon.
Now, you may be wondering what qualities a top must exude to whet the thirst of such an exquisitely obscene bottom. Well, as a fervent believer in the art of playing rough, I relish the moments I feel truly conquered. While I tend toward the beauties who surpass me in either curves, height, or muscle, there’s nothing more intimidating (by which I mean “hotter”) than a lady displaying confidence in her unapologetic, homosexual femininity. When the look is right and the high femme is dazzling, that’s more than enough to turn a cocky, charismatic Sagittarius like me into a stuttering puddle of bottom. It’s paramount that she knows who she is (a bad bitch), what she wants (to make a little bitch beg for it), and with whom she wants to do it (this little bitch right here).
Femininity so often feels creative by nature. We are intentional about building, cultivating, and maintaining our aesthetic selves. What makes me giddy is seeing that same attention to detail transferred into kinky sex and BDSM play. I love a lady who’ll pin me to the bed, then giggle while I squirm like a brat; someone who’ll absolutely wreck me to the beat of bubblegum pop and make me discreetly worship her body in inappropriate settings. To the world at large, femmes are frequently treated as the objects of others’ desires, so the opportunity to play and revel in our own depravity, rather than be sexualized, always makes me swoon.
Beyond these preferences, there’s such wide variety between all the lovely ladies who’ve ever put my ankles behind my ears, and experiencing someone’s unique style of femmeness and perversion never ceases to thrill. On the subject of topping and femme worship, Dahlia Snow said, “It’s validating to my gayness in a community where I sometimes feel invisible, and it’s fun to be seen as the most beautiful, powerful, important person in the room in a world that devalues femininity.” So to you, my dearest, depraved, gorgeous tops, I thank you for all the libidinous moments shared and yet to come. And if I could leave one thing with you, the femme ones I’ve yet to meet, it would be to ask—nay, implore—you to get at me.
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