C|Suite is a men's magazine founded by Frank Cervi. It combines urban/office life-style articles with soft-core pornographic pictorials. In recent years, C-Suite introduced the 'letters' column in which readers send in borderline ridiculous sexcapades, resulting often in explicit and unnecessary detail.
Dear C|Suite: Every modern woman remembers the very moment, the very day, she became a feminist; a closet lesbian.
It was a day like any other; a crisp and sunny afternoon. The sun was breaking through the clouds like a bull-dyke smashing through the patriarchy with her external laissez faire appearance. With a hot scolding coffee in hand—the steering wheel in the other— I was driving down the main street of town, not paying attention to the road or my surroundings; admiring my own reflection in the rear-view mirror.
Suddenly, my 'feminist moment' happened; the moment I became extremely wet, tingly and throbby at the sight of a fellow sista smashing the patriarchy. Looking to the right side of the street whilst at a red light, crews of construction workers were busy jack-hammering the sidewalk. A man was using the jack-hammer; the only female construction worker was busy bringing the rest of the crew, coffee; then proceeded to go on her phone and swipe.
The sight of a fellow go-gurl in Dakota men's overalls and a bright orange vest made my vagina moist like the two-bite brownie I had just got from the coffee shop. I proceeded to stuff my face with said moist brownie—like how I wanted to stuff my own vagina with something at that moment—while I watched this strong and independent woman show these toxic, masculine men how to fetch coffee like a real woman.
I then thought to myself, whilst still waiting for the long and tiresome red light to turn green, how this woman at work was probably being paid less than her male counterparts, not because she was only good for bringing hot coffee, or her limited ability to lift her iphone—open Tinder on the job— instead of that heavy jack-hammer, but because of the oppression she faces in the workplace due to the patriarchy.
Even though the Equal Pay Act was passed all the way back in 1963, I was willing to believe that this construction woman was getting .73 cents on the dollar, not because she diddles herself on her phone all day long, calls into work sick all the time and can’t lift those heavy and oppressing tools like all the men can, but because the world is against her.
The patriarchy was not allowing her to pick up those heavy tools and penetrate that concrete like how the next guy on Tinder will do to her tender pussy; tender, just like this yummy, two-bite brownie that I just finished stuffing my face with, just as the streetlight turned greener than a lesbian hair-cut.
Subsequent to witnessing that scene of empowerment, I had to stop off at another coffee shop; not only to get more calorie-packing lattes and two-bite brownies, but to also skip into the bathroom in order to wipe my vagina that had become so soggy and damp from the display of female power I had just witnessed moments ago.
After cleaning up the empowered mess in my panties, then grabbing a full bag of brownies and tray of lattes for myself, it was time to get to my hair appointment across town at a cute little female-ran salon called: Scissor-Sisters.
Two female friends of mine run this salon downtown. They just had their grand opening last week; maybe five people showed-up, maybe 10 clients since. So, I decided to make an appointment to show my support and solidarity for two lesbian entrepreneurs, trying to smash the patriarchy, whose passions lay in scissoring other women—plus I needed and wanted to get this new and trendy hair-cut that I have been seeing other women donning around the city.
Rolling up to the salon, I noticed how creative these two stunningly brave women were.
The marquee for their salon read Scissor-Sisters and had the graphic logo of two scissors, scissoring each other; the face of a cartoon-esq woman sticking-out her tongue between a pair of scissors. I couldn’t imagine, for a second, why these two go-getters, these two brave and creative women, weren’t attracting the entire city for hair-cuts!
After greeting the two lesbian business women, I sat down in the salon chair and asked for what every-other gurl in town was going for, with regards to hair-fashion these days—I wanted the ‘Dyke-cut’.
It was not a problem. With the choice of purple, green, blue, pink or neon red dye, five minutes of razor sheers to the sides of my scalp and some heavy scissoring to the top portion of my head-mop, my dyke-cut was taking form.
During the whole process I started to fantasize about how my life was going to be like after I walked out of that gay salon and into the real world: I imagined myself going to the grocery store and asking to speak to several managers about the quality of one smooshed blueberry in a pack of a hundred.
I then envisioned myself having a ‘college experience’ with a fellow female friend while my husband was out of town; red wine, vibrators and little bit of lube for encouragement.
I visualized all of the new attention people would be giving me; starring at my new hair-doo, jealous of comments behind my back people were making about whether or not I liked to munch on rug, or have massive daddy-issues.
Oh, the drama I wished.
The thought of all this attention made me moist in my lulu’s again. At this time, waking-up from my fanciful stupor, a pair of titties were bouncing near my face and rubbing up against my chin and cheeks; the lesbian hair-stylist was almost finished with me, putting the last bit of touches on my dyke-cut.
Most times, it’s annoying when your hair-dresser gets to close, grinds into your knee when they are trying to get the best scissor-angle in order to finish the cut.
However, today was different. These women, who got a subsidized loan from the government in order to start a female-led business, so as to try and close that much talked about wage-gap, were professionals. I liked that; my pussy seemed to like that virtue-signalling thought, too.
I was moist again; like the two-bite brownies I wished I hadn’t left in the car.
After the lesbian cutter was done with my doo, I was enthralled in the finished product. I now had my own dyke-cut! I looked just like them: An empowered, hard-charging woman that need-no-man to start a business….aside from other men’s tax dollars.
I gave her and her lesbian business partner both hugs, which seemed to go on forever. When it came time to pay at the register, they offered me a coupon to which, when redeemed, would give me a ‘free scissoring’. This, I thought, is how you should do business.
The one owner said, “And don’t feel bad about who you choose for the free scissoring….you can choose me to scissor you, or you can choose my partner.” To which I replied back, “Why can’t I just let you both take turns, scissoring me?”
It was only fair; they were both qualified, professionals.
I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.
Turns out, they were both ecstatic at this change in coupon policy from my unsolicited council!
As I left the salon, I felt invigorated, empowered and even slightly horny; boarding on needing to masturbate as soon as possible.
As I was walking to my car, people were immediately starring at me. This caused me to get even hornier. Men were looking at me, then looking quickly away; they must’ve been embarrassed that I caught them envisioning fucking me with my new and improved hair-doo.
In fact, one businessman that had been gawking my way, ran toward a garbage bin in order to throw-up—He must’ve felt guilty, sick to his stomach from undressing me with his eyes, ashamed of his male gaze.
I couldn’t take all of this attention anymore. I quickly waddled to my car, feeling the slickness of my wet pussy against my damp panties, got into the driver’s seat and drove as fast as possible to my apartment.
Almost kicking my five cats out of the way, after steamrolling through the front door, I ran to my bedroom with the bag of two-bite brownies that had somewhat melted in the car during my dyke-cutting.
I laid on the bed and rubbed a brownie into the wet hole in my face; rubbed-out a quickie down below; a yummy reward for my pussy after a long day of tease.
Best. Day. Ever.
For More Laughs & Wisdom:
Might Just Burst The College Bubble
By Aaron Clarey
Artist of the month
Hot Sports Chick (OTM)