"LET'S GO LESBIANS!!!!"

[:high5:]
[I </3 DYKES]

Sheep and wolf isn't a trope you think about til the moment you do. That moment must have come after drawing this, but maybe not right after. Maybe a long time after. Well, it hasn't been a long time yet, has it? Or has it? Had it actually been a long time before...? Maybe it was the longest time before. Maybe it was the entire time. Maybe it was a sheep and a wolf from the start.

What's it like, to be linked together so - to be both predator and prey at once? To take these as inextricable; parts of a whole, perhaps, but utterly meaningless, on their own? When the wolf drinks the sheep's blood, does there remain any separation between these two beings?

Maybe the world takes the silhouette, pitch black, as one outline. Fed on the caught; caught by the feed. It's just how it always is. A union is one thing made of two; as one thing it's new, yet so it shall remain. Until death do they pry apart.

But to someone near; to someone within, even; surely they are two. The beauty is in their mess. The nuance is in their curves. They measure the time between her breath and hers, because the experience is why they tangle so. In retrospect it's just one instant; but life isn't lived in retrospect.

This is the first time Lanolin felt an embodiment in her own gender. It wasn't foreign before then, it was just unfamiliar. It was foreign. Unfamiliar. Was it new? It was old. Of course it was old. It was twenty one years in the making. Twenty one years gestating. When she felt it for the first time, it was familiar. She had felt it before. She had felt this before. It was brand new.

She'd been here before. Only, she'd been the one pinning down the other; and only, was that even her? Hadn't that been someone else? Did it mean anything to draw a connection, at all?

In the end she did draw the connection, like she drew taut a string; she released it with a pluck and then the reverberations went imperceptible, but never silent. Only quiet enough that she felt, for one moment, for one fleeting moment, that she was completely in that moment; and that her gender was, too.

She hoped she would feel it again.

In substance, despite appearance, it's tame. At worst perhaps she's only wearing a shirt. In the eyes of the almighty categorizer, one observes no nipples and no genitals; one observes at most an implication of regional contact; and one categorizes, almightily, questionable.

Despite how it bothers her, she takes a power in this. A subtle power, but power all the same. She won't tell you the answer. She forgot it long ago.

Yet she seeks a resolution anyway - one which works for her. One she doesn't need to keep to herself. Couldn't it be, that it is not tame at all, not despite its apparent restraint but because of it? Doesn't this speak of sacrilege, of sullying a basic impression with nary the sight of one's sex nor the slip of one's tongue? Isn't the effect obvious from the start?

The almighty categorizer, of course, does not judge such things. It does not hear; it is not listening. It has already moved on.