the life and musings of a kinky slut

3.27.18 01 Unfinished

I wrote this rough draft back in January shortly after returning from winter break. I never finished it, but want to post it anyway for completeness sake. Also this series of three posts will be my last ones about Gent for a very long time, so I want to capture as many of those memories as possible while I can.


The Last Time

The last time we fucked was the Wednesday before I went back to school. I knew it would be a goodbye, for now.

It was the makeup for our previously canceled dinner and drinking plans.

G: You know this is cheating, right?
Me: I know, but I also know I care for you and whatever time you can give me I’m going to hold on to with all ten fingers and ten toes.

Part of me wondered if it would happen at all. He and I can sometimes cross wires when it comes to planning outings. This time was no different. A miscommunication delayed our meeting up until 7pm. As I got ready, he informed me he was already tipsy from a lunchtime meet-up with a friend. My emotions, being what they are, feared a last minute cancellation or an unenjoyable evening. Neither of which were our fate.

I wore a pretty dress he’d never seen before, wore my hair down, and even donned earrings and heals. I wanted to look good for him, wanted to leave him with a memory of me he could be proud of.

When I got to his place, I knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I tried the nob. It was unlocked. I entered and announced myself. He yelled a greeting from his bathroom, which was back in his bedroom. I put down my things, walked towards him. He stood at his sink wearing only a towel around his waist.

I turned sheepish. I think he took pleasure in my awkwardness. This view of him was something to be admired, and yet my politeness battled my desire to not take my eyes off him. He walked around, getting ready. He removed his towel. His body was meant to be rendered in marble: cut lines, masculine proportions, and fist biting features I relish remembering even now.

Relax, he said more than once. Around him, it is hardly ever possible for me to do so.

He clothed, called an Uber, and had us on our way into downtown.

We ate at a hipster sheik restaurant.

“Eat the fries,” he said, a stern smile on his face.

Our restaurant was half a block away from the themed bar where we wished to conclude our evening: The Christmas Bar.

The rest of the night, back at his place, punctuated in moments:

Goodbye fucking. Missing you while you’re still inside me.

Trying to remember every touch, every caress.

Your smell on you, soaked in your sheets, hoping it will stick to me as I drive home.

Kiss fuck bite pain pleasure…

“Put your pussy on my mouth.”

“Can I have your ass tonight?”

“I want to feel you cum on my cock.”

Lifting my dress, pulling down my tights, and fucking me against your dining room table.

You, naked against the wall. Me, clothed, knelt in front of you. Your cock in my mouth, fucking my face.

The First Time

The first time we fucked was on the night after I got back into town. An opportune text message, and myself coincidentally nearby, had me turning my car around and heading his way.

I didn’t go to his place with the intention of having sex. Upon my arrival, he offered me a drink. I had a cider or two. He drank a beer. And then there was pleasing, yet blunt, conversation.

G: What is it?
Me: No, I shouldn’t.
G: Come on. You only live once.
Me: Every time I’m in a room with you, I am constantly thinking about fucking you.
G: Constantly?
Me: It’s always at least in the back of my thoughts.

I pivoted the topic. Pulled out my phone, showed him pictures of my school friends, an excuse to sit closer to him.

G: Just so that you know, I’m semi hard right now.
Me: Why only semi?

I went back to talking about school, rambling in my excitement and nervousness. Then took a breath, and said what was on my mind.

Me: I want to give you head right now, but I don’t want it to be weird between us.
G: Why would it be weird?
Me: I don’t know.

I knew. I didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to think about it. I wanted him. That was enough in the moment.

He stood up, slipped off his pants, and sat back on the couch, bare from the waist down, no longer semi erect. His cock was just as pretty as I remembered it, maybe more so. I knelt in front of him. Took off my glasses. Put my hands behind my back.

I hadn’t given head in six months. I started slow. Remembered how much I liked to be playful with a cock in my mouth. He caressed my hair, my back; brushed my chest, my chin.

He took off his shirt, was now naked.

I brought a hand forward. He swept it back, then grabbed the bottom of my shirt and lifted it over my head. He unhooked and removed my bra, my mouth again on his cock. He stood, gripped my arm, and coaxed me to standing. He shoved up my skirt, then pushed me down to replace him on the couch.

He sucked on my breast, felt around my hips, and then ripped down my panties and tights. He put two of his fingers in his mouth, and then into me.

I leaned back, moaned, could hardly believe how my night had developed. He pumped his third and fourth digits in and out of me as I writhed in the middle of his living room.

Abruptly, he stopped, stood up, and walked towards the back, into his bedroom. I removed my skirt, now naked myself, and began undoing my hair in anticipation of his return.

“Come here.”

I obeyed.

[Every time I think about this moment, I bite my lip, take a breath, and then sigh. We’ve had this natural dynamic for as long as I’ve known him. He is effortlessly dominant, and I always want to submit to him. Being given a command, and happily following it, is a small act, yet I didn’t realize how much I craved just that for the past six months.]

He already had a condom on when I walked in. A nudge on my shoulder guided me up onto the bed.  Three breaths later, he was inside me. My legs wrapped around his waist. My nails gripped his back. I breathed in his scent, my head in the crook of his neck.

He laid his chest against my chest, rested his cheek against my cheek. We fucked close. It was intimate intense sex, intoxicating enveloping sex. I didn’t want to let him go.

He turned me over, gripped my hips, pulled me towards him. His chest against my back, our fingers interlaced, and again his cheek against my cheek.

He pulled me off the bed. Leaned me against the bed. Fucked me hard against his bed. He pulled my hair, and head, back.

“Are you going to come for me?”

I did.

Sweaty exhaustion followed, back on top of his bed.

G: Is it weird?
Me: Nope. I will officially add you to my ‘Friends I Fuck’ list. And, for next time, you can bite harder.

I felt high, playful. He looked a little too sweaty.

Me: Are you okay?
G: I think I’m getting sick.

Soon after, I made a polite exit. He was ill the next day, unfortunately cancelling our dinner plans.

I didn’t see him again until a week later.

11.20.17 nerdGirl #1

How is it that every time he is around my eyes find him, as if they have a sixth sense for his presence.

Those arms. That smile. That chest. Fuck, every single part of his body.

It is so hard to focus when I’m around him, yet that is exactly what I have to do. He is one of the smartest people in our class, one of my main competitors.

Still, there is no way I could ever feel ill towards him.

He is kind, and sweet, quiet in the charming kind of way. He calls himself an introvert, but, when I get him alone, he opens up. I’ll ask him a question, or try to trip him up on a topic, and his eyes brighten. He starts talking so fast and is so passionate about the work. Those moments make me want him more.

And fuck, he is so fine.
Like ridiculously fine.
Like thank-goodness-you-are-taken-cause-if-not-ever-girl-in-this-class-would-be-all-up-on-you-all-the-time fine.
He is ‘break the rules’ fine.
He is ‘I could never get enough’ fine.
He is ‘dangerously delicious, please be all up in this’ fine.

Did I mention he’s taken?

And what’s worse? His closest confidant is also brilliant, and also hot as hell, but he is such an asshole.
Like ‘I want to smack him upside his head’ asshole.
Like ‘I want to shove his mouth on my cunt to shut him up’ asshole.
I have had wonderful hate fuck fantasies about this boy from jump.

But I’ve also had delightful ‘pin me against the wall and make me scream your name’ moments while thinking about him during lecture.

What is the cliche? That protestations are really masked affections? Maybe. Not a day goes by that I don’t rant about his annoyances. He is brilliant, too. If he every shut his mouth, I would gladly give him something else, besides his own voice, to enjoy.

Either way, those two boys fill my days, and nights, with private smiles and improper thoughts, distractions needed to release the tensions of our med school lives.

10.9.17 What I Want

It wasn’t a date, though by most evaluative measures anyone else would have categorized it as such.

He paid for everything: the drinks as we waited for our seats, the bowls of steaming ramen in the baking hot restaurant, and the drinks after our meal because I guess he wanted to talk to me for just a bit longer. To be fair, I didn’t want our reconnection to end so soon either.

Internally, I cursed as soon as I saw him again, sitting at the brushed wood bar in the low lit room with the doors open to let the air move. He was just as handsome as I remembered him, maybe even more so with years and experience coloring his brow.

I felt sheepish as I sat and spoke with him. Too many years, too many thoughts I didn’t want to think. Throughout our evening I had flashes of moments in his apartment and longed for new memories to be made.

As the first of three bills came, I asked him if he paid for my drink. “What do you think?” “I take nothing for granted.” Every time I had previously arranged to see him, and in the hours and moments leading up to the appointed time, I never trusted that it would happen. Too often those years ago he left me wanting, so I learned to trust in almost nothing about him, save for the bits of himself he peppered into our conversations after moments of soft cajoling or in the time we shared with one another, as few but lasting as they were.

His eyes are just as piercing as I remembered, his words as subtle and chosen precisely. Often, when he’d have to repeat himself due to the din of the various rooms, I noticed the small ways he changed his query, small but meaningful ways. Always thinking, always noticing, always analyzing, though I guess that’s the both of us really.

Our dinner afforded me close proximity to his still incredibly large arms, knees brushed against one another, elbow to elbow as we sat, ate, and drank. He sweated throughout, occasionally wiping down his brow. I patted him down once myself.

I randomly remarked I was glad I reapplied deodorant in the car, which led to a minor confession of how I didn’t want to “disappoint is the wrong word, but it’s close.” To be blunt, I wondered if he was still attracted to me. I wondered if he noticed the open back of my shirt, or that I wasn’t wearing underwear, a choice not due to his presence but a happy accident of my weekend. I wondered what he thought of me, the life I had lived since we last saw one another an estimated four, or more, years previous.

I still wanted him, really wanted him, but knew the odds of the night being more than consumption and conversation were slight. Still, he is a tease I can never quite let go of.

I showed him the new tattoos, two from since we’d last seen one another. I related, with sadness, how I had to take out one of my nipple piercings. I remarked on the shock of seeing him on television randomly: a local news segment that woke me from a dozed state on my couch. I spoke about the seismic difference my life has taken: new city, new school, new world. He, like others, grimaced when I gleefully spoke of holding a brain in my hands.

For once, I pushed to learn more about him. What was his life like now? What were his plans? Though he told me stories, I confess only the most worry-making of them has stuck. Later, there was a conversation about therapy and why he ended up with the partners he had had. An enjoyment in the drama “crazy” women have brought into his life was spoken. “But I’m not crazy,” I said. “There are levels,” he said. I can’t argue with sound logic, though I do wonder the flavor of twisted I introduced into his world.

His handful of small bombshells included the throw away, “I lost my teacher”, regarding the lack of kink in his life. I was then reminded of rolling a carry-on suitcase to his apartment, showing him my modest assortment of toys to play with, and all the fun that ensued that evening.

Later, he asked, “So what’s the best sex of your life?” I had no good answer. Instead, I pulled out my phone and perused my list. “You have a list?” “I’m a nerd and I like data.” Among the categories, I breakdown by gender and what act each person performed. “Damn, I’m not a full POFAS.”

We had an entire conversation about sex, how his had been lackluster for some time now and how he felt it didn’t matter to him anymore. I lamented about this, suggesting maybe he was having sex with the wrong people. He agreed with my point, but also pivoted to enjoying other simpler pleasures more than sex, namely watching sports on his couch and going to bed early. I, being me, nudged with my idealistic positively skewed perspective, wanting him to have otherworldly sex mostly because that was my experience and has given me an appreciation of connection and awe-inspiring orgasms. But with his multitude of annoying chases and lackluster climaxes, I don’t think he was convinced.

Years back, I confessed our sex had been, up to that point, my best ever. In the moment, though, I didn’t mention breaking a bedframe at camp from fucking for three hours. Or the recent Trouble I got into. I did speak about GFTD, gave him the rundown on why and how things ended, and the difficulty I have remembering any of our interactions fondly; it’s hard to appreciate previously amazing sex when your ex hurt you so bad in the end. Some scars take longer than you’d like to heal.

Towards the end of the conversation, I acquiesced that he was still in my top five. I also let him know, should his current relationship end, I’d be more than happy to have him round out his categories.

Full honesty: it would be hard for me to say no to anything he asked for, but he doesn’t ask for anything, so I’m saved (for now).

Well, he did ask for one thing. He wanted to see me again. Occasionally throughout the night he apologized for his previous actions, for being an asshole, for hurting me. I didn’t expect it, but was glad that he said the words and seem to mean them. As he was about to walk me to my car, he requested to see me again when I was back in town. He apologized one last time as he hugged me goodbye.

I guess I’ll have something else to write about in a few months. Full honesty (again): his desire to read my writing is why I wrote this blog. It is hard, so hard, to say no to him.

What does it mean when you always want to please someone?

Drunk Blogging: Bittersweet

All of today, I was two deep breaths away from sobbing.

I know my family and friends couldn’t make it because of money, work, time restraints, and the general hassle of traversing hundreds of miles to get to me, but being among so many people who got to share today with their family and friends was hard.

Even though I knew they couldn’t, I wanted my family to be there.

Today was hard.

My new friends made it better. There is a serious emphasis on our group gelling, becoming rocks we can each lean upon. Without my new friends’ love, I would’ve fallen apart on multiple occasions. I am so grateful for the people I’ve met and with whom I get to share these next few years.

Just like today, tonight was difficult. I’m in the curious situation of being “out” but not “free”. There is maybe one other person in my cohort who is queer, I think. My friends know I’m kinky, but most of them are coupled up and have no interest in that part of my life.

[Side Note: It’s a little freaky how I am the hot-vanilla-who-has-a-partner whisperer.  I can think of four different people who are my good friends, so very fucking sexy, and are either married or in a committed-long-term-heading-towards-the-altar relationship. I don’t know why I am their catnip, but it’s a thing.]

I’m so horny and so starved for touch, embrace, love in forms other than hot dirty sex (though I really miss hot dirty sex too. I haven’t fucked since before I moved. To be perfectly honest, this part of my journey didn’t click until I got here. I’m a filthy fucking slut in the midst of average folk. I am so thirsty for some good dick. So unbelievably horny and at a loss to figure out how to get laid without complicate what I came here to do. Yah girl has needs that a Hitachi can subside for only but so long).

Hmm, where was I?

So tonight I had a lot of fun, and damn near cried in a crowd full of people I didn’t want to cry in front of because that would’ve been super awkward.

Along with my couple charms, I have also noticed that a few hot single people have floated into my orbit.  And, of course, that are not interested in me. Seeing your crushes grind against women who are smaller, darker, and prettier that you is pretty tough. Throw in alcohol, horny thoughts, and homesickness, and you’ll understand why I had to leave the party earlier than I planned.

Like, for real? Either the one’s I like don’t like me back OR their coupled up and I’m left dry. You’re girl is pretty resentful and hurt about her current circumstance. It feels like they are politely using me. They flock to me to help them with class and studying, but no one just wants me for me. I’m great for quizzing you on the material, but none of ya’ll fools is looking to wife me or put a tiny human in my belly.

Once again, I’ve swung back to feelings of unworthiness and doubt. Another chorus of my loneliness and heartache. Well, if nothing else, I am consistent.

I cried in the car on the way home tonight. I thought coming here would be great, and academic-wise it’s been excellent, but I’m still the fat friend no one wants to love.  And that fucking sucks.

4.20.17 When I Was Seven

~ a poem ~

When I was seven
I had a pink notebook,
even though I hated the color pink,
and still hate the color pink,
but I remember the Pepto Bismol pages
as if I still held them in my hands.

When I was seven
I had a pink notebook,
and in it I wrote my first poem
which of course was terrible.
No one finds their voice at seven.
I don’t even know if I have a voice now.
But they were words
that formed some sort of idea
that meant a lot to me.

When I was seven
I had a pink notebook,
and in it I wrote my first poem,
and showed it to my cousin Ella
who was my second cousin,
my great aunt’s daughter.
But she was near my Mom’s age, though.
Was more like a third parent.
So when the cancer came,
and I took her to chemo,
and helped her out of sweat wet clothes,
and buried her after bawling
after reading her obituary at the funeral,
I can’t just call her my cousin.

When I was seven
I had a pink notebook,
and in it I wrote my first poem,
and showed it to my cousin Ella
who read it
and loved it
and told me it was amazing.
I’ve been writing ever since.

4.7.17 Triad_02

~ a story, in many parts ~

To feel the pull of destiny is to stop dead in your tracks, to have the world melt away into instinct and need. To understand our love, and our lives, is to know magic beyond even our comprehension.


It was a warm May day when Edwin and Santiago first saw the beach. Though they grew up only a few hours away, money was never easy for anyone in their neighborhood. Luxuries, like a long drive for a few hours of ocean fun, were frivolous and unnecessary and therefore never indulged.

At about 11am, three buses rolled up to the beach carrying many high school seniors having the same experience as the two best friends. Board shorts, back packs, and bikinis under over-sized t-shirts flooded the sand. Yelps and giggles filled the air. High schoolers acted like little kids, most having not felt such glee in as many years. They ran into the ocean and then promptly ran back out. They flung water on each other, on themselves, and dunked under the waves. The few that could swim feigned teaching the skill to others.

“We should get a house out here.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ed. Let go of your introspection for one afternoon.”

“I’m serious. We could split the rent, get a couple more friends to come in.  We’d always be by the beach. By the water.”

“Yeah sure Ed. And we’d all live happily fucking after. Enjoy your pipe dreams. Im’ma go splash Jen over there and enjoy my now.”

Santiago ran off towards the pretty girl in his Trig class. Edwin staid stock still, feeling the Sun and the ocean breeze on his skin.

‘Why not live in paradise?’ he thought. ‘Rent is a little higher, but a home is a home.’

In his contemplative mood, Edwin knew he wouldn’t be any fun. He decided to wander down the beach and be in his thoughts for a few.

As he walked away from his friends, down the long shoreline, he began to feel a pull towards something. ‘Just bit farther,’ he thought. ‘I’ll go just a little more.’

Ed, past all of the beach crowd, was alone, though he could still see his friends about a football field away.

Just as suddenly as he had felt the pull to keep walking, Ed knew he should stop. He sat down in the sand where the water came up to his toes.

‘Who doesn’t want to live in paradise?’

Ed eased his hands into the sand, dug his fingers deep, and took a full breath. Closed his eyes. And felt movement under his left hand. Looking down, he brushed away a few particles and found something impossible underneath.

“How?” he said aloud, just as the heart leapt up, torn a hole in between his ribs, and entered his chest.

Santiago felt as if a knife had plunged into his chest; an urgency to run gripped him. He dashed his eyes down the beach and saw Ed seemingly passed out on the sand.

Santiago ran. He dodged his fellow classmates, who laughed and lunged out of his way.

Coming upon his friend, Santiago dropped down to his knees, shook Ed’s shoulders, screamed his friend’s name.

“Echo,” Edwin whispered as he came to.


“I, I’m fine San. I’m fine.”

Ed sat up, shook the sand from his hair, and brushed it off his skin.

“What the fuck!?!” Santiago saw a red mark over one of Ed’s left ribs. “What the hell is that?”

“San chill, it’s.” Edwin looked down at the new yet familiar scar. “It’s okay San.”

“What the fuck do you mean, “It’s okay”? Where did that come from?”

“I, I don’t know, but I know it’s, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Ed, you passed out on the beach. No one was looking for you. What if?”

Ed stood up. “Yeah, but I’m good now.” He turned and started walking.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some water. I probably keeled over because of the Sun. I’m just dehydrated is all.”


“Hey, come with me if you want, but I’m telling you I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I’ll come with.”

The two walked up the long slope to the water fountain just outside the bathrooms in the parking lot. Edwin took a long swig. Santiago followed suit. Then they went into the facilities. All the stalls were empty, doors in various angles of open.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Exasperated, Ed turned to his friend.

“Stop asking me if I’m okay.”

“Ed, but this.” Santiago ran his hand over the line of auburn colored flesh on Edwin’s chest. Both friends gasped and felt a twitch in their groins. Their eyes met. Heat rose up in their bodies.

They kissed, Santiago’s hand still cupping Edwin’s new scar.


They didn’t talk for the next four hours. They said nothing as they filled onto the bus, sat next to each other in the very back, and rode for three hours towards home. They both could taste the other on their lips, could feel the stickiness in their shorts, and the flecks drying in between their fingers. Each battled his own war to not touch the other as the bus bumped its way back to school.

Even as they rode in Ed’s car, neither said a word until they were back at Ed’s house, their usual afternoon routine.

“Are we gay? I didn’t think I was gay. I’ve been trying to fuck Jen for like a month.” Santiago paced a labyrinth into the carpet of Edwin’s basement bedroom. “What the fuck was that? Since when do we? We’ve never done. We’ve never talked about. How did we? What is going on?”

“San, slow down. Sit down.”

“How can you be so calm? We just, well it wasn’t fucking per se. Does jerking each other off count as fucking? Did you want to fuck me? Cause I think I wanted to fuck you. Do I still want to fuck you? Since when has fucking you even been an option? What the fuck is going on?”

“San, I don’t get it either, but we’re gonna to be okay.”

“How can you be so fucking calm? You got some weird scar at the beach and now we’ve both turned gay for each other. This isn’t normal, Ed. I gotta go.”

“Go where?”

“I don’t know. I gotta walk, write, do something. My mind is all jumbled and being around you isn’t helping.”

“You still feel it.”


“I feel it too. San, I.”

“I’ll see you later, Ed.”


Santiago stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m still going Jen’s party tonight. Just give me some time to think. I’ll see you in a few hours.”


Santiago ran up the stairs and out of Edwin’s sight. As Ed heard the back door close, he slumped down in his bed. Without his realizing it, he began to rub his new scar while stroking himself and thinking about his best friend.

3.18.17 Triad_01

~ a story, in many parts ~

We fit together,
three souls connected,
entwined by magic,
four hearts beating between us.
We are destined to live,
love, die,
and live once more,
finding each other
over and over
and over again.


I eased the door closed and stripped down to my underwear before crawling into bed with them. It was the first time in a long time that I got home after they’d gone to sleep.

Shadow slept on the right, Echo on the left. I climbed up the middle, pealed the covers back, and slid in between them.

Eyes still closed, their hands found me. Echo reached for my hips and pulled my ass into his crotch. His teeth sunk into my shoulder, his growl escaping my flesh. Shadow found my hair and nestled his face against my cheek. He kissed me softly; my gasp from Echo’s bite slipped into Shadow’s mouth.

Our bodies undulated together, nestling into one another. Our legs mingled. We murmured soft hums as we settled into each other for the night.

3.1.17 Same Old Heartache

~ a poem ~


It feels like Spring,
the season where
my loneliness blooms.
Each year, without fail,
I get an ache in my body,
a desire for a warm
and a little heart beating
in my belly.

Today I let my mind slip away,
dreaming of a life that could happen.
Our reconnection.
Our fucking.
Your inevitable absconding.
A positive test.
A message sent.
A new life within me
only half belonging to you.
I’d keep her.
I’d tell you,
let you decide
what kind of a man you were.
No matter your answer,
I’d be happy.

And then it struck me,
why this fantasy
was so comforting.
It is my life,
myself recast as my mother
and you as my father.

Of course my drifting mind
landed on all
I push against.
Of course the lust of us,
and the end of us,
was what I dreamed about.
It’s what I know.

Familiarity, however,
does not equal goals.

I meet horrible people every day
and most of them have dates,
Shitty people couple up so easily.

I, on the other hand,

Still, it’d be nice
if my person would show up already.

2.14 Long Overdue

Apologies for the delay in posting this. Here is my Gender Studies 101 paper in which I analyze the portrayal of gender in Hamilton: An American Musical. This is my paper in full, including the works cited page, and my typos; as a reminder, because I am a nerd, I earned an A.

I figured, for a supposed day of love, I’d share something I actually loved creating. Please enjoy.


Hamilton: An American Musical is a cultural phenomenon that has captured the zeitgeist of my generation.  Written by and starring Lin-Manuel Miranda, it garnered a record setting sixteen Tony nominations and won eleven awards, including Best Supporting Actress, Best Supporting Actor, Best Lead Actor, and Best New musical.  Its accolades also include a Grammy for Best Musical Theatre Album, performed by the original Broadway cast. (Hamilton (musical) Wikipedia.com) As its awards would suggest, this musical is advanced in multiple ways, including in its depictions of gender.  In its casting choices, costume designs, and songs, Hamilton both affirms and counters stereotypical views of masculinity and femininity.

When performing an intersectional analysis, one looks at general attributes one could use to describe or categorize a group of people. These classifications can include race ethnicity, social class, and gender. (Aulette and Wittner 9) Hamilton utilizes its diversity to its advantage in creating a dynamic and captivating show.

Simply by looking at the original Broadway cast of Hamilton, one can already see how this musical differs from most other performances on the Great White Way. (Miranda and McCarter 18-19) The majority of the cast members are people of color.  Its three main leads include one Latin man, one black man, and one half-Asian woman. The supporting cast includes three black men, two black women, one Latin man, and one white man.

Though there is seven-to-three ratio of men to women in the lead roles, the ensemble is an even split with six women and six men. Again, we see a group filled with people of color. Of the twelve people in the ensemble, only three are white. For a musical that is based on the lives of our founding fathers, this simple switch from history to art is a major change.

In the musical, four actors play dual roles, the switch occurring between the two acts. For better gender equality, it would been interesting to see women play the roles of Lafayette/Jefferson and Laurens/Phillip. In Act One, Lafayette is a staunch ally and confidant of the main character, and Laurens is Hamilton’s closest friend. In Act Two, Jefferson is Hamilton’s foe in the cabinet, and Phillip is Hamilton’s son. (Miranda and cast) Giving the roles of Lafayette/Jefferson and Laurens/Phillip to women would introduce interesting gender undertones as well as give the musical an equal proportion of male and female main characters.

On the surface, roles in the show trend towards the men, but digging deeper reveals greater female involvement than expected. The lesser named characters, specifically characters played by the ensemble on a rotating basis, include three roles only played by men. However, one role crucial to the entire musical, but is never named during any song, is The Bullet. Counter to expectation and stereotypes about male violence, The Bullet is played by a female ensemble member. Also, all ensemble members play group roles: soldiers, voters, cabinet members, and Federalists. Though historically women weren’t officially allowed to fight in the Revolutionary War, or have the right to vote until many years later, female ensemble members are included in portraying these actions in Hamilton. (Miranda and cast) Greater equality among the genders is shown if one were to only pay attention.

An obvious and omnipresent prop for gender performance in Hamilton are the various costumes. (Aulette and Wittner 77-78) When we are first introduced to the cast, we are also introduced to subtle displays of gender that will be maintained throughout the nearly three hour show. Initially, all cast members are in outfits made in plain canvas colored cloth. The leading men, with the exception of Burr, the main narrator, wear a white shirt, vest, coat, pants, and boots. The leading ladies wear a dress with a cinched bodice and long sleeves. (Miranda and McCarter 18-19)

The members of the ensemble wear similar outfits, but delving into the details reveals the subtlety of gender display. The men wear a vest with no shirt, showing their bare arms. They don loose fitting pants and boots. The women also wear a vest, but it is corseted in the back and has bows at either shoulder. Their pants are of a stretchy material, possibly leggings. The women also wear boots. (Miranda and McCarter 18-19) The male ensemble members show off their strength in their arms and are given pants that presume work must be down, hence the loose comfort. The women are given tops that require someone else to help them dress, pants that accentuate their read ends, and a top that includes a playful, childlike, accessory.

The counter-gender messaging via costuming occurs during the ensemble group roles.  When the ensemble is comprised of soldiers, voters, cabinet members, and Federalists, the women lose their corseted tops and instead wear shirts just like the men, buttoned down and bare armed. (Miranda and McCarter 260-261) Both sexes sport either long coats as soldiers, or gloved hands and pseudo-ties as voters, cabinet members, and Federalists. (Miranda and McCarter 62-63, 260-261) Since the women took up “male” roles, they are dressed in more masculine attire.  However, the pants remain the same throughout the show.

One stereotypical, and gloriously on the nose, costume choice was the outfit for King George. In a role played by a white man, the monarch comes out on stage in red fabric with gold trim, an ermine throw over his shoulder, a large gold and jeweled shoulder piece, and a crown. (Miranda and McCarter 56) King George is a rich white man who is the symbol of the monarchy, the wealthy class, and white straight male rule.  He is unlike any other character in the show: mostly solo singing in his musical numbers, opulence in his dress, a Brit-Pop musical style, and a psychopathic need for control through violence. The character of King George is the very definition of hegemonic masculinity. (Aulette and Wittner 10)

Ultimately, my love for Hamilton begins and ends with the music. When reviewing the number and the focus of the songs, we again see how gender is a part of the play. There are forty-seven named songs in the show. (Miranda and cast) Of those, three are solos: two from King George and one from Eliza, the female lead. At first, this would seem like a point where men outpace the women. However, when you combine the times of both of King George’s solos, you find that his total time is less than that of Eliza’s one solo. A perceived bias turns out to be close to equity.

When looking at the rest of the songs, there is more male than female singing. For the purpose of my analysis, I defined a male dominated song as one where no female leads sing, but the ensemble is included. There are twenty such songs in the play. There are also seven songs where only the male leads sing; not even the ensemble contributes. This is more than half of the show. There are no songs, save Eliza’s solo, where only the female leads sing. However, there are three songs where the women are the main singers and fourteen songs where there is a mix of male and female singing. Though the men are given a large portion of the show, the women are still an enormous and important presence. Changing the casting of Laurens/Phillip and Lafayette/Jefferson to women would go a long way towards equal gender representation in the singing.

Hamilton features many different music styles, including classic Broadway, jazz, R&B, Brit-Pop, island music, and, most notably, rap. Hip Hop is the by far the most important language of the show. When analyzing the way rap is utilized in two songs, one can see how gender is again reinforced and countered. The power of masculinity is juxtaposed against the genius of the mind of a strong woman.

Guns and Ships is a fast meaty song occurring at the height of the war. The Marquis de Lafayette, played by Daveed Diggs, uses the song to boast of his military prowess. He brags about triumphs in battle, “makin’ redcoats redder with bloodstains.” (Diggs, Odom Jr., Jackson, and cast 0:33-0:34) His leadership is credited by Burr, in his roles as narrator, as a major reason why the colonists were successful against England. In Daveed Diggs’ delivery, the audience is gifted with rapid fire lyrics. The lines are packed with middle and end rhymes, including alliteration, assonance, and consonance. Lafayette shows his bravado in the first half of the song, and then switches to praise his friend Hamilton. The entirety of the two minutes and six seconds are about war, fighting, cunning, and blood, stereotypically masculine traits.

Satisfied takes place at a wedding. Angelica, the eldest Schuyler Sister, raises a glass and toasts to the marriage of Hamilton to her sister Eliza. The song then rewinds back in time. In the previous song, Helpless, we see how Eliza meets Hamilton, falls in love, is wooed by him, and their eventual marriage. In Satisfied, we learn Eliza was not the first Schuyler sister Hamilton met.

The song is a whirlwind of moments, realizations, and decisions made in the blink of an eye. Angelica describes her first encounter with Hamilton at a Winter’s Ball. Just through a brief conversation, she realizes Hamilton is her soul mate, but he is also interested in her family’s money. Angelica also sees that her sister has fallen for Hamilton, too. In a flash, Angelica analyzes the situation and decides to put family before her heart. Angelica loves and knows her sister well. She explains, “If I tell her that I love him she’d be silently resigned, He’d be mine. She would say, ‘I’m fine.’ She’d be lying.” (Goldsberry and cast 3:54-4:02)  In her duty as eldest daughter, and because of her love for her sister, Angelica puts Eliza’s heart before her own.

Satisfied, given more than double the time of Guns and Ships, weaves a story of love and heartbreak. It shows Angelica’s sacrifice, but also exemplifies the power of her mind. Angelica’s rap is tongue twisting, quick, clever, intelligent, calculating, and empathetic. It is stereotypically emotional, but unstereotypically cerebral.

Two songs that exemplify how Hamilton runs counter to expectations of gender are positioned at opposite ends of Act One.

Dear Theodosia is a cooing melody sung by Burr and Hamilton centering on their love of their children. Both men had a child soon after the war ended. The song is slow, full of paternal pride and caution. Burr sings to his daughter, “When you came into the world, you cried and it broke my heart. I’m dedicating every day to you.” (Odom Jr. and Miranda 0:17-0:31) Like a lullaby, it soothes the audience after the boom and bombast of the war. Against expectation, it is a song full of softness sung by two strong men.

The Schuyler Sisters is our introduction to the leading ladies of the musical. It is also a feminist anthem rocked by three emboldened women. Peggy, Angelica, and Eliza Schuyler take a carriage into the city in search of “a mind at work”. (Goldsberry, Soo, Cephas-Jones, Odom Jr., and cast 1:06-1:09) The women remark on the march towards war with England, their thirst for knowledge, their political beliefs about equality, and their joy of being a part of history in the making. When confronted by Burr in his attempt to woo the oldest sister, he calls himself “a trust fund baby. You can trust me.” (1:34-1:36) Angelica and her sisters respond to his advance with zeal.

Angelica: I’ve been reading “Common Sense” by Thomas Payne. So men say I’m intense or I’m insane. You want a revolution? I want a revelation, so listen to my declaration.
Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.”
Angelica: And when I meet Thomas Jefferson,
Company: Unh!
Angelica: I’m ‘a compel him to include women in the sequel!
Women: Work! (1:36-1:55)

In this song, the women value intelligence over money. They are bold and confident. They are calling for equality in a society that does not afford such to them. This is how we are introduced to the leading women of the show, and nothing after this song diminishes our view of their strength.

Through compelling characters and excellent use of varying musical styles, Hamilton: An American Musical engendered enough devotion in me to sleep overnight on a city street in order to buy a ticket to see the show. The virtuosity of this musical is shown throughout its execution, down even to its portrayal of gender. A casual viewer can walk away without realizing they have seen a show that counters stereotypes of gender. Though men outnumber the women in the cast, it still features strong female characters in roles not often associated with the 18th and 19th century. The women are people who make choices and decide their lives for themselves. Costume choices to display gender difference or wash them away challenge stereotypical notions of what are women’s roles. The music gives voice to characters bold and strong and feminine. For those who are paying attention, Hamilton is brilliance unbound and feminist at its core.


Works Cited


“Hamilton (musical).” Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamilton_(musical). Accessed

10 December 2016.


Aulette, Judy Root and Judith Wittner. Gendered Worlds. 2nd ed, Oxford University Press, 2012,

  1. 9, 10, 77-78.


Miranda, Lin-Manuel and Original Broadway Cast. Hamilton: An American Musical, Atlantic

Records, 2015.


Miranda, Lin-Manuel and Jeremy McCarter. Hamilton: The Revolution.1st ed., Grand Central

Publishing, 2016, pg. 18-19, 56, 62-63, 260-261.


Daveed Diggs, Leslie Odom Jr., Christopher Jackson, and original broadway cast. “Guns and

Ships.” Hamilton: An American Musical, Atlantic Records, 2015.


Renѐe Elise Goldsberry, and original broadway cast. “Satisfied.” Hamilton: An American

Musical, Atlantic Records, 2015.


Leslie Odom Jr. and Lin-Manuel Miranda. “Dear Theodosia.” Hamilton: An American Musical,

Atlantic Records, 2015.


Renѐe Elise Goldsberry, Phillipa Soo, Jasmine Cephas-Jones, Leslie Odom Jr. and original

broadway cast. “The Schuyler Sisters.” Hamilton: An American Musical, Atlantic

Records, 2015.