Guest blog: Non-binary erotica – Tears

Image by the always fantastic Stuart F Taylor

I love erotic fiction that makes me feel things alongside ‘horny’ and today’s guest blog, by Anita Cassidy (@anitacassidy76 on Twitter) does exactly that. It’s a beautiful tale of a first-time encounter between an older woman and a non-binary person, in which they share more than sex – connection, intimacy, and love for each others’ bodies. It’s utterly beautiful and you’re in for a treat.


It was their shared interest in dragons that had connected them. Dragon fans were usually adults with who still watched far too much CGI-heavy television, but she had just turned seventy and had no time for anyone but people who were interested in actual dragons. The real ones.

The dragons are us, she had typed in a recent blog post, a worm that can also fly. She’d showed her hand early, via her website, as she often did, to weed out the clueless and the time wasters. They either got it, or they didn’t. And if they did, well, they were on to the next level of the game. On their way to the path that led to the mouth of the cave.

He had agreed to coffee almost too quickly and, indulgent of his keenness, she’d been pleasantly pleased when the coffee had gone well. They had arranged to meet again for dinner the next day and then, today, to meet at hers. For, of course, being only 24, he still lived at home. She had happily offered up her home, excited for the first time in a long time to be able to say: I live alone.

After a brief tour, she had asked him to take a seat and then gone to get a glass of water for them both.

‘The idea that everyone is bisexual is as unhelpful as the idea that everyone is kinky,’ she said, as she walked back into the cool room and sat down next to him on the red leather sofa. ‘Everyone was not, and would never be, something other than human, and to me this means unique and common, both god and worm.’

‘Becker,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I love his writing. It feels good to have someone beat me to the reference.’

‘I read a lot.’

‘And that’s one of the reasons why you’re here.’

They smiled at each other. She sipped her water and then, putting it down on the low, dark-wood coffee table, she said, ‘I’m fascinated by your hair.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Signalling. Also Becker. There’s that wonderful reference to scalping at the start of Escape from Evil, about the courageous and the inevitable leaders of the tribes being those who are willing to be visible. It really inspired me. It can be hard being out there with my queerness, but I prefer the challenge and the difficulties of being out in the open than to the pain of hiding away.’

‘May I?’ she asked, as she lifted a hand to his temple.

‘Yes,’ he replied, eyes on hers. They were dark brown with long lashes and an almond shape that spoke of a complex family heritage. They were also wide open.

She stroked the longer hair that lay over his under-cut: the dark turquoise was soft like feathers under her fingers.

‘Like a peacock.’

‘So many metaphors,’ he smiled back. ‘I thought we were dragons.’

‘Dragons, birds, aren’t they all part of the same mystical combination of earth and air? And they’re old,’ she added, sitting back. That moment of tenderness had been a little disarming. She felt vulnerable and so she also felt the need to snap some reality back into the moment. ‘Like me. Ancient.’

Offering none of the usual platitudes and auto-pilot responses, he looked at her. ‘May I?’ he asked, echoing her request, as he reached towards her hand.

She hated her hands. Her scaly talons. They were the focus of so much of her difficult feelings about age, as well as being the things that brought pleasure through work and touch. All too often now they were sore and a little twisted. Arthritis had been something she’d always expected, it ran through the family, but the pain had been a genuine shock. Who knew such small parts of the body, these tiny joints and knuckles, could be so huge with pain?

‘Yes,’ she replied quietly.

Taking her hands in his, he brought them to his mouth and he brushed his full lips against the backs of them gently.

She almost let out a sigh. His prettiness was clear, but he was also very male. Though none of his complex sexual and gendered self was as fascinating to her as all the other things he was. That happened as you aged too: being reduced to just “an old person”, with people unable, or unwilling, to see the experience, love, learning and losses that all those years held.

You had to allow age to soften you, rather than make you hard. This was a lesson she’d been taking in slowly. Losing lovers, losing friends as the years marched on, it had all become too hard, and so she had turned away from softness, making her dragon scales too thick for anyone to penetrate.

But then, after years of being mostly alone, she’d met a woman, a woman who had shown her that outside of the cave there was still a life to be enjoyed, a sky to stretch one’s wings in, and a ground to rub and itch one’s belly against. That friendship had changed her and she’d emerged from the cave and learnt to live again, learnt to let her skin feel the sun and the rain; learnt to love them both.

‘It’s the places in between,’ she said, ‘that we have to learn to notice. The moments where the day becomes night. Those liminal hours, where the light shifts and softens, then hardens into dark. The spaces where a water pool becomes a waterfall. These intersections are where the magic happens, where the present is.’

‘I like to hear you say that,’ he said. ‘I like the idea of living there. Of staying in this space between man and woman, light and dark. I belong there.’


She looked down. He was still holding her hands. His lips had felt so soft. She wondered what they tasted like.

As if reading her thoughts, he asked to kiss her.

Feeling as if she had never been kissed before, a flush rising up on her deeply lined cheeks, she smiled and nodded, and, closing her eyes, she tilted her head towards him. Their lips met softly.

Their arms moved around each other’s waists, lacing round as they pulled the other to them. The kisses began to be more insistent and then slowed. A teasing rhythm, a rhythm that said let’s enjoy this in-between moment. There was no hardness here – all the male energy came from his soul, not his body.

Kissing, touching, she ran her hands up the sides of his narrow back, feeling the line of the bandage, the tight cotton bindings round his chest, and then, stroking those, showing her acceptance with touch, she moved her hands down over his arms. He felt strong, but also soft, and she sighed as his hands mirrored hers. They paused to look at each other and smiled again.

Standing up, he asked, ‘May I use the bathroom? And are you happy for me to change? Before we…’

They had discussed this in detail in their previous meetings and so she knew what he meant.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s the second door on the left. The bedroom is opposite’

While he was gone, she went to the bedroom and got undressed. She then got into the bed. There was going to be no hiding this time. Her 70-year-old body was something that only acceptance could be given to. There had been that glorious moment with Dorothy, a moment where the other woman had said, ‘You’re either living and ageing, or literally dead, or, even worse, the living dead. Which do you want to be?’ It had been a hard question to hear, but her body had been ready to listen to her heart’s answer, even if it had taken her mind a little while to catch up.

And so, lying back, she placed her wrinkle-covered hand on to herself, the grey hair soft and thick, and plucking at her clit, she felt no impatience at the slowness of her responses. Ageing, if you let it, brought the gift of patience. The night stand contained the lubricant and the other little toys she enjoyed. The bullet vibrator was her favourite. Taking that in her hand now, feeling the slow buzzing against her, she enjoyed the sensation and felt no hurry for the pleasure to build within. Pleasure did not have to hurry. She had plenty of time.

It was hard to accept the pleasure at times, hard to accept that an old body even deserved it, but it did feel it if you allowed it to. She’d also learnt that she was far too old to stop resisting pleasure when it came knocking – some things did improve with age and that willingness to take and enjoy every moment, whatever it contained, had been a vital one.

He walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. The whiteness of the tight bindings she had felt through his clothes, pressing down small breasts, shone faintly in the pale lamp light. His shoulders tapered to a thick waist and wide, rounded thighs. There, in between his legs, held in place by specially made cotton underwear, was a curved silicone dick: slim, short and a delicious purple.

With a sigh she lifted the cover, allowing him to see her – not moving on to her back to let gravity pull her skin straighter, as she might have done before, no, just lying as she was, the soft folds and the all-over wrinkles there to be seen.

He got in to the bed next to her. She felt the cool of the silicone against her thigh as they embraced and kissed.

Mouths pressed together, they explored each other with their lips and fingers, skin against skin. Words were replaced by caresses, sound by touch in this moment of communion and acceptance.

Reaching over, she took the silicone-friendly lube and, looking into his eyes and then down, she gently massaged him. Tracing fingers over his thighs, over his soft belly, she let her hand trace and then massage the silky liquid onto the stiff purple prosthetic. She wiped her hand on some tissue, then moved some of the pillows, taking this pause as a chance to make sure she had something to help prop her up – she felt more comfortable having the pillows’ thickness between her and the firm mattress. He kissed her mouth and then she turned over, smiling over her shoulder as she felt his legs between her thighs and his hands on her softening, crinkling skin.

Kissing her bottom, he traced his hand over her skin, mirroring the strokes she had given him and kissing her back with his soft mouth.

He reached over, taking some more of the lube, gently massaging it into the space between her buttocks, teasing, running his fingers around her puckered asshole, making her sigh and moan. Placing the small vibrator against herself, she felt the tingling rise up inside her as he kissed and teased.

He whispered, ‘Ready?’

She nodded and breathed out as he gently slid into her ass, slowly, slowly, easing into her with the slim silicone dick.

Slowly and yet firmly he fucked her, fucked her with long, slow strokes as she held the buzzing length of the vibrator up against herself and felt herself come, the ripples of pleasure flowing all the way up inside her. The pleasure of orgasm had only grown with age, not diminished as she had often feared it would.

Gently, she allowed him to help her move onto her back and then, guiding it with her hands, took the full length of the purple dildo up inside of herself. She pulled him close to her with her thin arms. Kissing his bindings, tugging at them gently with her teeth as well as kissing the soft skin of his shoulders, she could feel him coming too beneath the prosthetic cock, the base of it pressing against what remained of his long-let-go womanhood.

Her body was responding to his touch and the firm strokes of his strap-on, but also to her own acceptance of it. Softening into the now, she felt suffused with pleasure. A pleasure that came because she allowed it to; a pleasure that her body still needed and still deserved.

As they lay there afterwards, looking up at the square of night that hung above them through the skylight, tears tracked down both their faces. Tears of acceptance, shimmering pearls of love and peace. Kissing each other’s dew-wet cheeks, they held hands as they lay together in the misty hours of the dawn.


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