I was excited to learn about Black Tape for a Blue Girl Lyricist’s erotic novel “Rye.” Not only because I am a fan of his awesome ambient music, which you can check out here, but also because the book honestly approaches topics such as genderqueer identities, kink and polyamory which are seldom realistically explored in literature. You can read my short review of the book here, and check out this teaser excerpt from the novel, which will be followed by an interview with author Sam Rosenthal in coming weeks. -Bianca
I love our bodies together, the way Rye feels beneath my hands.
Strong lean muscles. The slightest curve of breasts. The smell of her sweat.
I’ve often imagined my ideal girl having the body of a guy on the college track team.
A boyish face, tousled hair, tousled clothes.
I’ve found it in Rye.
There is something delicate in the way our bodies mix. The blurring of male and
It draws me in, makes me hard.
Red and blue lights speckled across my bedroom, a fire truck screamed in the
Rye said she always felt more like a boy, preferring male pronouns.
I’ll try to keep this straight.
I kissed Rye’s chest, pulled at the barbell piercing through his erect nipple. The metal against my teeth, my breath on his skin; I was mesmerized.
“Go slow, Matt,” he said. “I haven’t been with a male in years. I’m at an unfamiliar place in my life.”
I took Rye as he requested, pressing him to my bed, fingers tight around his biceps.
He watched my every move with a devilish smile. Cropped dirty blond hair fell across his eyes. I brushed it aside, his face damp.
His groan mixed with a little snicker, my body against him. I raised his arms above his head, my face buried in his armpit.
A wet, moist, earthy smell stung up in the back of my nose.
I kissed his skin. His collarbone. Throat. Chin.
He looked into my eyes, whispered, “Fuck me like we really are two boys!”
I rolled him onto his belly and pulled down his pants, kneeling between his legs. I admired his ass, and the soft cunt down below. My fingers spread on his back, tracing the bones of his ribs. We’re similar in height and weight.
I want to see him naked beneath me in the woods.
Rye found me on-line. I’m thankful for the power of that dating site algorithm. A thirty-one-year-old androgynous female interested in a forty-year-old male? I can work with that.
Rye’s profile stated he was gay and yet our messages told me we were flirting. I tried not to overthink the contradiction, the pixels were staring me in the face.
Our first kiss was on my couch, my hand on the back of his neck pulling him to me. I still wasn’t sure if I was what he wanted, having this cock and all. He smiled and eyed my crotch. Curious. Hungry.
He explained that when he listed as ‘gay’ he meant that he dated women. But he kind of started thinking that being gay meant maybe he should try guys, seeing as how he felt so much like a guy himself.
He pointed to himself, then to me. “Boy plus boy. Gay. Get it?”
That’s what he is: genderqueer.
I walked to the coffee shop with Rye. Unlike our first evening, this time we spent the night.
“Oh yeah, Matt,” he said, “I’m sure feminine guys like you get hit on all the time.”
“I’m not feminine!” I said, pushing him away.
He laughed. “Come on, don’t deny it. You’re sensitive and perceptive. And I totally dig your body. Hot and thin and that cute round butt. I understand why they want to deflower it.”
He made a grab for my ass.
“It’s just how I was built,” I said.
I spun out of his grasp and stood in the snow, glaring at him.
Just last week, I got a text from Rye: Waking up without you this morning was tough. Why are you so far away? I absolutely adore being in your bed, your tender mouth and strong hands on my skin. Your cock in my cunt. I miss you so much. I miss talking and processing with you. I wish I could be sneaking into your bed at the end of the evening. Kisses, your boi.
Order Rye here, and stayed tuned for an interview with author Sam Rosenthal.