Brandye and I had moved back to Philadelphia after a two-year stint in New York City. Moving around was driving me nuts. Every year or two, we moved. Usually it was a huge move, to another city, cutting ties, etc. It had been almost six years now that we'd been together and we'd moved five times. I hated moving. I absolutely hated it. But we had settled into our new apartment, a very spacious two bedroom in a swanky high rise. The area was nothing to sneeze at, 47th and Pine in University City/West Philadelphia. Close enough to the University of Pennsylvania to be prestigious, close enough to the apartment I lived before while in graduate school to feel familiar. And now, six months later, it was finally beginning to feel like home. I was spending time getting acclimated to my brutal commute to and from work, two hours in each direction, a killer commute if there ever was one. Most of my energy was spent on adjusting to that alone.
Why did we move so often? Well, sometimes it was my job. As an Assistant Professor, you had to go where the work took you. So, first it took me from Philadelphia to New York. Then, I found something in New Jersey. I was tenure track, so most likely I would stay in New Jersey. Other times we moved around when she quit her job (or managed to get fired). I was married to a woman that hated to work. It was an interesting reality for me considering how serious I took my job and how motivated I was to get tenure, securing my job for life. But we never marry those who are just like us, do we? No, not usually.
My wife, Brandye, was an absolutely stunning, half black/half Cherokee very talented, classically trained Opera singer. No work in that field for people of color, hence her frustration with the clerical crap jobs she was forced to occupy because I insisted she work. She was a charmer from the South, the Louisiana bayou area. And she was a real looker. Big bright eyes, thick brows, high cheek bones, nice sensual lips… She used to run track and she has the legs to prove it even as she approached 40. She's smart, talented, beautiful...you would think she'd be a happy person. She's not. She's frustrated that her career didn't take off. And whenever she gets on the phone with her mother, her mother never fails to remind her that she's a failure. It's painful to watch someone you love being tortured by their mother and themselves, but we all have to walk our own paths, right? It just creates a great deal of strain in our relationship, that's all.
And me? Well, I'm an Ivy League grad twice over who hailed from the housing projects of New York City. An enigma if there ever was one. I remember arguing with one of my graduate school professors who insisted I could not have been raised in the projects because I didn't speak like "them" or carry myself like "those people." While it was fun shattering his narrow perception of the people living in housing projects, it reminded me, as I had been reminded over and over in the past few years, that I faced an uphill battle.
Now, I don't see myself as a looker, although my wife has said to me time and time again "Gloria, I wouldn't have married an ugly woman." I have to take her word for it. To me, I'm very plain looking…albeit very different from the average black woman. Don't get me wrong, I follow the typical script in many ways. I'm thick in the thighs with quite a bit of "junk in my trunk." I have a pretty small waist but huge tits that were quickly losing the battle with gravity as I approached 35. And my face? I had dark chocolate skin with full lips, a fairly normal nose, huge bright eyes with pupils some said looked black, and perfectly arched thin brows. My hair was cut low, very close to my head and I had a perfectly shaped scalp that had attracted more than my fair share of admirers. I was okay. I wasn't repulsive but you wouldn't find me on a magazine cover any time in the near future.
Okay, but I'm not writing about me and my wife. I'm writing about a couple we met after having settled down in Philadelphia for the second time. They lived in our building, a few floors beneath us. We kept bumping into them in the elevator or outside while we walked our dog. Sometimes we were together and would bump into them as a couple, other times we would spot the couple, or part of the couple, when we were alone. Let me describe them. Dyanne was a tall, relatively thin light skinned woman who I could only describe as a soft butch (although that's not how she described herself). She had long dark dreadlocks, very nicely maintained by the way, and a body she spent hours working on in a gym. She described herself as a Transgendered Gay Male (don't ask), but she occupied the traditionally feminine role in her relationship. What did I mean by that? She cooked, did most of the cleaning and laundry, did most of the shopping, and she watched their two kids (two huge dogs) more often than her partner did. I found out later she had been in an abusive relationship with a man right before this lesbian relationship. She reminded me of the classic image of a battered woman, even in her current relationship. She was passive, unwilling to rock the boat, and leery of her partner's temper. When her partner flared up, she would back down and basically try to shrink herself into invisibility to avoid the wrath. Don't get me wrong, my wife and I also argued. I think any healthy couple argues and sometimes those arguments get a little out of hand. But this relationship was fascinating to watch. I've never seen a woman dominate another woman in such a way. It was…intriguing to say the least.
Why was it intriguing to me? Well, wait, let me not get ahead of myself. The other half of that couple's name was Jaden. Jaden. Hmmm…let's see. She was cinnamon brown, thick of build with a square frame. She had muscle, that was clear, but she was no bodybuilder. I wouldn't say she was fat, she was simply…thick. She was a few inches taller than I was, so probably five feet eight inches, her hair was cut very low, but it didn't hug her scalp as mine did, and she had what I would call masculine features, a square chin and forehead, thick brows, a pug nose…and the most incredible pair of lips.
It wasn't what was on the outside that intrigued me, it was what was on the inside. Jaden was a pure Domme if I ever saw one. Her choice of profession, a lawyer, only confirmed that observation. And I? I was a truly submissive femme. People often mistook me for a soft butch, as my wife did, because of my haircut. But I'm not. I am a control freak that wants to relinquish control to a woman who can handle taking over the reigns. My wife was not this person. Because she was so unhappy with herself, and because she was an artist, she just didn't have the head to worry about paying bills on time. In fact, when we met, she was three months behind on her rent! I couldn't live like that. So, the person who I relinquished control to would have to be very responsible and sure of herself. Jaden was. When she said jump, Dyanne jumped. I'm sure it was because Dyanne was used to being abused, and Dyanne often told us she saw this behavior as abusive. I saw it as absolutely…titillating. And pretty much exactly what I was looking for, unbeknownst to me.
So, this couple is about the oddest encounter my wife and I have ever had. We'd met a couple that was made up of the women we really wanted. My wife wanted a looker who was unquestionably obedient. That was Dyanne. I wanted someone who owned her masculinity and was willing to persuade a woman to relinquish control. That was Jaden.
So, after bumping into each other enough times for us to smile when it happened, my wife finally invited this couple over to our place. Their first words to us? "We are not attracted to you." Okay, now how odd was that? No one said they were attracted to us. Anyway, it struck us, my wife and I, as odd that they would open with this and then launch into a conversation about their open relationship. Well, what I should say is that Dyanne slept with other women because she claimed Jaden was having some sexual problems. I knew right away the problem was. Dyanne wanted to be an equal in Jaden's bed and Jaden needed to be in absolute control in the bedroom. Didn't I tell you I was feeling this woman from day one? So, "open" meant Dyanne slept with other women and Jaden could if she wanted to, but I could see that Jaden grew more and more pissed about sharing her property. Like I said, she was a natural born Domme even if she didn't know it.
After our first get together, my wife and I decided they were fucking nuts. But I could tell Brandye had an itch for Dyanne. Dyanne was her type, well-bred, well-read, and willing to be wooed by a charmer. And I can admit now that even that early into the game, I really had an itch for Jaden. I had been reading about subs and Dommes for a while, I was obsessed with the idea in fact. But my wife really had a problem owning her dominant side. She thought it made her too masculine. So although I hungered for her to dominate me, she couldn't (or wouldn't). But I loved her, so I had swallowed that need.
Jaden wouldn't have that problem. I thought about that the first night we had them over for dinner and every time we hung out with them thereafter. Don't get me wrong, sometimes Jaden was so controlling with Dyanne it seemed like abuse. But it was only abuse because Dyanne didn't want to be controlled. I, on the other hand, didn't have a problem with Jaden's take charge attitude and often found myself, the ultimate feminist, defending Jaden to my wife. Even I was surprised about that. Defending a woman who seemed more in touch with her masculine side? I didn't say it made sense, it just was.
So, we double-dated for a few weeks, getting to know one another, hanging out, taking in movies, an Opera, trying new restaurants, going to concerts. We worked well as double-dates. We had similar backgrounds and similar interests. Dyanne and I often found ourselves teamed up against our partners, considering we were both avid feminists. But there was an underlying sexual tension between the four of us. I'm pretty sure I was not the only one to notice it.
