Y’all know how much I love Brooklyn Nine-Nine, FOX’s goofy, racially diverse, and arguably quite feminist cop comedy. I unreservedly adore every single character on this damn show, but I must admit I have a favorite: Rosa Diaz. She’s a mystery, inside an enigma, wrapped in black leather.
There are times when I doubt my sexual identity. I date and fuck men so predominantly that sometimes I wonder if my queer days are behind me. But then I watch Stephanie Beatriz dominate the screen as Rosa Diaz, and I think: Nope. Definitely still queer.
Nightstand Necessities is a new feature I’m launching here at Girly Juice, all about what I imagine is hiding in my favorite fictional characters’ bedside tables (or purses or pockets or sex toy chests, as the case may be). I could think of no better way to kick off this series than by writing about Rosa. My headcanons for her are plentiful and searing hot. Let’s get into it…
Rosa definitely straps on. (A fanfic I wrote says so, so it must be true.) Her whole aesthetic is based around black leather, and of course that’s true of her boudoir accoutrements as well. She rocks a black Aslan Leather Jaguar harness, worn in to buttery perfection. You’ve come to associate the sound of metal buckles sliding against leather straps with the imminent hope of getting fucked, and the smell of leather reminds you of being face-down and throat-deep on her silicone cock. Naturally, this Pavlovian conditioning enables her to turn you on in public any time she wants, by getting close to you in one of her many leather jackets, zipping it tight, idly fondling the chrome hardware. She knows exactly what she’s doing, but when you call her out on it, she just sneers, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Her sharp-tongued bossiness extends to the bedroom. She calls you her dirty slut, her fucktoy, hers. She spanks you with her bare hands, leaving stingy welts from the wallops. She thinks impact implements are for wimps who don’t know how to hit – but she’ll occasionally whip out her hardcover copy of Howl and leave book-shaped bruises on your ass. You know she’s feeling especially mean when she slips her leather vampire gloves on and says, “Bend over. Now.” If you get too bratty, she puts a black glass ballgag in your mouth until she’s done with you – but she always checks in, softly muttering “Is that okay?” and waiting for your nod before she pushes you back down onto the bed.
She bought you a Crave leather cuff bracelet and likes for you to always wear it when you’re going to be seeing her. (She’d like for you to wear it all the time – as a symbol of her owning you – but she hasn’t quite felt brave enough to have that conversation with you yet. One of her core beliefs is that emotions are sappy and dumb, so she’s not sure how to parse the imperious affection she feels for you.) The bracelet can be converted into bondage cuffs at a moment’s notice. She’s bought you beautiful jewelry, books, and other treasures, but the leather cuff is your favorite present she’s given you – because you know what it means, even if she doesn’t feel ready to tell you yet.
In bed, she’s normally stone, preferring to direct her energies onto your body rather than lie back and receive. But on the rare nights when she’s achy and exhausted from a long day at the precinct, she lets you use her favorite toys on her. You smear Sliquid Silver lube all over her red Fucking Sculptures Corkscrew dildo and slowly slide it into her, so careful and kind. She holds her black Doxy Die Cast to her clit with one hand, and with the other, strokes your hair and arms and face with a tenderness you rarely see in her. She looks so beautiful with her black curls fanned out against the pillow. “Faster,” she barks. “Harder.” You do your best to angle the Corkscrew against her G-spot, and she grunts the way she does when she’s tackling a perp in an alley. If you fuck her just right, hard and quick for as long as she needs, she comes with a resonant roar and squirts triumphantly on your hands, your arms, your face.
She watches as you slip the dildo out of her and into your mouth. You so rarely get to taste her; it’s a treat. The warmth in her face is rare, too, you reflect as she pets your hair and purrs, “You were so good for me, baby.”