Femininism
“Almost there.” Jamie said, reaching up to the top of a bookshelf in Women’s Fiction.
She placed her foot on the top rung, thinking to herself about the dangers of tipsy ladders on wheels attached to bookshelves fifteen feet tall. Then she remembered that Gwen had a clear view up her skirt and, even though the girl below was her best friend, felt quite exposed. Hell, she generally felt exposed at the doctors—when they were looking into her ear. Jamie lifted herself up onto a plateau, folding her legs underneath her. Gwen, holding the ladder steady at the bottom, watched her school chum’s petite frame crawl over the top of the bookshelf with the grace of a salamander, which was a sort of awkward grace.
“See anything?” she asked, squinting against the brightness of the sky-light. The sky was clear blue, splotched with white clouds. The jagged edges of a hole in the glass twinkled.
“One sec.” came the response from on high.
Jamie, sitting up on her knees, took a quick look around. The library seemed pretty normal from her vantage, as normal as any library would look from the top of a high bookshelf—covered in an inch of dust and reminiscent of a rather straightforward hedge maze. She left prints in the dust and realized that she was probably the first person to have visited the top of these shelves, ever.
She was even starting to fancy herself a female Neil Armstrong, making tracks in a place no one had been before, a place where even her small bustline collected dust like a shelf. It wasn’t exactly as glamorous as space travel, she thought, swatting dirt from her school uniform and picking stray bunnies out of her brown hair. The lack of circulation at the top of the library, however, would certainly ensure her knee prints would last for an eternity, just like footprints on the moon, so there was at least the benefit of posterity.
Not everything was completely undisturbed, though. On the same bookshelf as Jamie was a thin book, a hardcover, lying at the centre of a blast mark in the dust. Jamie looked up at the hole in the glass and imagined the book’s trajectory.
That’s impossible, she thought, shaking her head. Surely the simplest explanation was the correct one. And yet, the simplest explanation Jamie and Gwen had come up with involved a bird striking the glass.
“There’s no bird up here.” Jamie said.
“Maybe it flew away?”
“There’s a book.” Jamie replied, “and it looks like someone hurled it through the skylight... just now.”
“What?”
“A book.” Jamie repeated.
“Oh... you think it was the Straight-Priders again? One of ‘theirs’ threw a brick through the window at the GLBTG centre... a sort of anti-gay marriage ‘don’t shatter our institution’ demonstration. Very symbolic.” Gwen said, rolling her eyes.
“Well, it’s certainly an odd way of returning the Womyn’s Centre’s own property.” Jamie said, reading the stamp on the spine. She reached for the book and opened it up to the first page. It was thin, maybe fifty pages, and the pictures inside were fractal and confusing.
“I think it’s a joke.”
“What’s so funny about it?”
“Well, it’s got a strange title.” Jamie replied, looking down to the fae-ish redhead at the bottom of the aisle. “It’s called, ‘Femininism for Dummies’. You know, I think the others will want to see this...”
I’ve been thinking about Civics class. The topic yesterday was Drugs and Society. Drugs are a lot like sex, I think. I’ve been thinking about sex a lot, lately.
An orgasm is like one mind-blowing drag off the most potent drug never understood. It’s so potently liberating that churches, governments, and the powerful alike have devoted vast tracks of history and time to controlling it.
I’ve been talking to Gwen and the other girls at the Womyn’s Centre about the book I found. It really is quite interesting—a great discourse on the dichotomy of the sexualized woman, in the way that at once women are protrayed as sexual beings and yet... passive. Dancing objects wearing booty shorts in music videos in one moment, passive receptors of ‘naturally’ more active male sexual advances the next.
It’s hard not to see that as unequal, in the way that we are allowed to be sexual so long as it is on other people’s terms. Produced on TV and in magazines for the eyes of men, or portrayed as passive players next to our partner’s desires. It goes for underwear too... historically women’s fashion has been very constricting and complicit in imposing boundaries on the female sexual being, channeling that sexuality in a direction more suited for others, not the woman herself.
There is no problem with making sacrifices, or going to pains to be beautiful, but maybe it’s time women owned their own image. Tomorrow, I’m going to table an idea for our next big rally.
Down with the War on Drugs!
The grass was littered with pamphlets titled ‘Femininism for Dummies’ along with the smaller ‘Take It Off! (and burn it) @ 8pm’.
Jamie gazed into the dancing fire and looked up at the frilly lace and sheer silks sailing in high arcs over her head. Almost the entire membership of the Campus Womyn’s centre had shown up to the Bra Burning Rally. The girls were truly inspired now, all fired up, and together they partook in a symbolic rejection of subjugation. Jamie bent over and slipped off her panties, spared from nudity by a skirt. A few of the girls around her looked down at the lacy thong she had kicked forward with a flick of her shoe; they looked at her with accusing glares, accusing enough for Jamie to understand that the girls around her were already naked under their shirts and skirts. Only the girls in the back had yet to finish removing their constraining undergarments, and they were doing so now, their clothes flying into the fire like artillery shells.
Jamie, late to her own party, bent forward to pick up her delicate panties.
Stepping back to gather momentum, she tossed her thong into the dusky sky and watched it sail through the air helplessly. And when it first met the harsh licking of the fire it unravelled and sputtered hotly, Jamie jumped up with glee. It felt so good to be one with the masses. One flame alone was just a candle, but dancing together flames were part of a fire, and that was what this was all about. The sisterhood, Womyn, fuelling the fire of liberation. The sky overhead was blotted with fragile garments, thrown away by a flock of birds.
She reached up under her shirt to unclasp her bra...
Breathing the new, refreshing air of liberation deeply, her breasts unfastened, Jamie stepped back from the heat of the fire, removing herself from the choir of singing school girls dancing in their uniforms, glowing with joy, gathered around the fire in a ring of joined hands.
Looking away from the light, Jamie’s eyes drifted out to the edge of the clearing. There in the private darkness of the forest she spotted the glint of watching eyes.
The cool darkness around her made her nipples hard, even when standing in the spotlight...
Jamie had retreated to the bushes for some privacy, bent over with her skirt hiked up, steadying herself against a tree. John’s erection rubbed against the small of her back and she pushed back at him, her buttocks fitting into the crux of his body naturally, too perfectly to be a lie. He humped her, grinding his hard cock against her tail bone, his scrotum brushing and tickling the crack of her ass.
She hadn’t known John for very long. Maybe only ten... twenty minutes, when she thought of it. The girls around the fire had sung only a few songs in that time, so it couldn’t have been very long. But that had been long enough. She could feel her intuition working better than it ever had, liberated from a prescribed script of placative pleasantries and indirect declarations of demure vulnerability.
She expressed herself freely now, owning her desires openly.
Yet her coupling with John had seemed to take an eternity, an eternity spent tempering her newly impatient sexuality. An eternity that had been more than long enough to decide what she wanted, what she needed. An eternity spent gazing into the glinting eyes of a guy and for once, in a lifetime of feeling awkward and victimized around men, feeling certain about their alluring masculinity. And not a doubt in her mind. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what boys and grrrls were for.
Jamie reflected on her situation, the rub of John’s cock on her buttocks soothing all discordance.
Throwing her bra and panties into the fire had changed her, helped her understand. That whole feminist symbolism had really worked out after all, she could feel it tingling down there. She was completely free now, having thrown off the yolk of constraint along with her undergarments.
John grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off her feet, his powerful cock thrusting up inside her and making her scream. They collapsed together on the soft dirt and grass, staining her knees and her forearms. Holding her down on all fours he fucked her wantonly, made her take him.
“Mmm!” she hummed, wincing from the penetration but asking for more. Faster, deeper. Like, fuck me, stretch me! she thought.
He bent down over her, still thrusting, and clawed possessively at her shirt, trying to free her breasts. She pulled one of her hands out of the dirt and reached to a button, pulling it undone, delighted by the failing of the next, and the next, and the next until they had all popped off and landed in the dirt below her. The air trembled, Jamie panting and rocking, John’s hands full with her breasts.
Sweat running down her brow now, she peered into the darkness and saw shapes. There were an awful lot of boys around, all of a sudden, marching in a loose formation, their eyes focused intently through the trees at the fire and the singing, pantiless women around it. One stepped out from behind a tree trunk in the darkness and approached her, his image trembling, the good fucking she was getting shaking her to the core. His hand moved down to his fly and she reached out to him, no longer thinking or caring for introductions. They were just a means to an end, really. She wanted what she wanted. There was no reason to settle for pleasantries and foreplay when she could just start at the end to begin with.
She slipped her mouth around the guy’s cock and sucked on him deeply, the salted aroma of his sweat filling her nose as she swallowed him down to the hilt. He groaned, and she could not have been more pleased at the sound. He put his hand on the back of her head, slipping his fingers into her reddish hair. She purred like a kitten, purring the only kind of sound she could utter while being fucked twice at once. John shot his load up inside her, and she could not have felt any hotter, the fire of liberation raging deep within her, without restraint. The guy came inside her mouth and she swallowed, his heated juice curing her hunger. She came and came and came.
She felt like an entirely new grrrl...
My grades have really been slipping. I guess I’m just not passionate about micro-economics or academics anymore. I was, but I’ve become a more socially oriented person since finding myself at the Womyn’s Centre. I mean, identity and social constructions—groups of people—these are the gears on which the world grinds. For me now, chemistry isn’t about molecules, but how people cum together.
Of course, that book I found in the library has been such a help in getting me to focus, so when Gwen and me made copies for all the grrrls at the Centre they were all thrilled. It really was a very fortunate find.
And I’ve like, totally been fucking so many guys, all in all having a lot of fun, and it’s only been a week since the rally. Gawd, I think that I’ve had more orgasms in the last week than I had in ten years of masturbation. And I’ve turned into such a gusher too. I’m so high! But I mean, that doesn’t make me bad, or make me any less... you no? I want it, and I’ve been taking to this new philosophy very smoothly. It’s a great new way to see things, and I’ve started buying the clothes for the look, too. Some nice airy stuff like short skirts and low tops, nothing too binding. I’ve totally reconciled my soft girly self with the sort of power I want to project... Gwen called it pussy power, which is always a laugh when we’re among the other girls talking about all the guys we’ve had.
And while I’m on the subject of self improvement, I’ve been looking into maybe getting some bigger boobs. I’m not looking for anything too big. Something modest... just an improvement. Something that might help me project more of that feminine power, you know? The grrrls have been talking about getting boob jobs on the Centre’s health plan!
Lately, the grrrls and me have taken to calling each other sluts as a sort of term of endearment. I mean, we all enjoy sex, so it’s sort of a body count thing. Like, before ‘slut’ was intended as a tool of oppression, a pejorative, but now we’ve taken that word and come to own it. Kinda like how gays took ‘Queer’. It’s our word now and we have our own use for it. We co-opted it and applied a new meaning, one of our own creation, denying the prejudiced of their linguistic control over us. There’s no shame there, anymore. That’s what it’s about: power. That’s how you usurp power from mechanisms of oppression and take it for yourself and your friends.
Anyway, until later—Gwen’s gonna dye my hair!
The right signals were so important. Jamie pulled her fingers through her hair, combing out the knots until it flowed through the brush like a wave of threaded silk. Her long platinum hair groomed and straightened, she let it fall over her shoulders and to each side of her breasts. Then she adjusted the frills that skirted the bottom edge of her pink waist corset, primping them with the delicate touch of her lithe fingers and French nails.
It was then, having redressed herself and searching for imperfection in the mirror, that she spotted a sparkle resting on the swell of her right breast and looked down to see it. There were a few glittering beads of cum left there from her last tit-fuck, so she wiped them off with a finger and inserted the digit into her mouth, feeding off the silken yolk.
Titillated by that too-brief intake of sperm, she applied a fresh layer of gloss, blew a kiss at the vanity mirror and then clacked on her towering heels towards the door. Jamie had transformed into an entirely new woman in recent weeks, having made so much progress in transitioning to her new lifestyle.
The Womyn’s centre had made some big changes, too.
She opened the door and crossed the threshold into the main parlour where bass-heavy pop was playing from the speakers. A couple of the grrrls were dancing on stage, twirling around poles, throwing their skimpy bikini tops and thongs into the crowd of eager boys. Male membership at the Womyn’s centre had skyrocketed since the rally, which was a good thing in Jamie’s mind, since getting male involvement was an important part of liberation. And the rally had been for visibility, too, so it was nice to see that the effort had paid off. Jamie couldn’t help but draw a lot of attention when she walked down the street now, something that often made her blush and giggle. So many men had taken notice of the university Feminist Group, in fact, that the Centre had moved off campus to a larger space across the street.
And it was a bonus, too, that the men loved seeing the grrrls strip off their underwear as much as the grrrls loved reliving the most liberating night of their lives. It had become something of a tradition now, infused with ritual dancing and stripping. Lecture classes were a distant memory, Jamie having switched to a more hands-on program, but she would never forget that last day of class around the bonfire.
Jamie watched Annie, one of the brand new brunettes, rubbing and grinding against the pole, the cold metal running between her slim buttocks, her French-manicured hands massaging her big boobies. Jamie’s hands wandered up to her own breasts, something they did often, and she squeezed them together. She was so delighted by the feel and size of her new 3000cc titties.
She never clothed them. That would be counterproductive. No—spiked heels and a waist corset were Jamie’s uniform. That and a gorgeous mane of bright hair to compliment her tanned body. She didn’t want to give mixed signals. After all, communication between boys and grrrls was so important.
Some nearby curtains parted and a soft, tanned, jumbo-titted bimbo slut strode into the parlour. Gwen, naked but for her high-heels and some white ribbons in her hair, emerged from the back office wiping her chin. She skipped up to Jamie happily, stroking one of her braided pig-tails with a distracted hand.
“I was just with Jenny, the new co-op supervisor.”
“Jenny—the new Jenny?”
“Yep.” Gwen bounced.
“Wow. A supervisor already?!”
“I know. She’s such a total slut. She’s so awesome. She’s totally opened up to the philosophy here.” Gwen mused.
“Ya... I remember seeing her at the rally with a copy of that new book in her hand, and thinking like, ’Finally!’. Before, she had always been like, ‘I don’t have a reason to join the Womyn’s Centre’.” Jamie smiled, twirling her hair, “Anyway, what did she say?”
“We got the co-op placement!” Gwen giggled, a smile stretching from one rosy cheek to the other. Jamie’s jaw dropped and she gasped, delighted.
“Like, when do we start?”
“Tonight! Jenny said we’re doing a pre-wedding party. And she told us to look really pretty, our sluttiest, and like, be ready for anything.”
“Anything?!”
“Mhmmm,” Gwen grinned, “just the two of us together, at like, a totally fun party. We’ll so not be bored. And the Centre will totally benefit from the money!”
The two locked hands and shivered with glee, their liberated, unfettered boobies bouncing. Jamie could not have been any happier with the way things had turned out. A new sense of freedom, a new Womyn’s Centre, and a new career doing what she loved. Jamie had everything a grrrl like her could ask for, and when she leaned in to kiss Gwen, their massively pumped tits pushed together, she knew that she also had a really awesome girlfriend to share life with, too.