Drag Queen on My Face

My attraction to queens is part high-femme covetousness (I want to be her more than do her, and I want to know where she gets her eyelashes), part genderfuck (I've been known to get on my knees for chicks with dicks before, just not this kind of chick with that kind of dick), and part fantasy (I think I like drag queens for the same reason I find myself attracted to porn stars—their exaggerated femininity is so alluring to me). Rumor has it that many of the girls onstage and in the audience were working girls, and by the middle of the show, I was seriously wondering how much cash I had on me. . . . I've never had sex with a drag queen before, so I explored the possibilities in my mind. I could strap it on and fuck her in the ass in the ladies' room. She could make me her bitch and nail me from behind in the alley. We could go lesbo all the way, her licking my pussy and me, tongue between her legs, adoring an imaginary cunt. I wish I could have opened my eyes and been right there to exclaim, "Oh, my God! There's a drag queen on my face! And I don't even care if she smears my lipstick. . . ."

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