Girl Crush

by R. Gay

  “You’re beautiful.” Before they could exchange demure thanks and return compliments, Mary went for Cecily’s neck, seeking out the vein, this time with her mouth instead of her eyes. Cecily hissed, and soon her leg was sliding possessively over Mary’s hip. She’s so soft, Mary thought as she smoothed her hands over Cecily’s leg and kissed her neck. Never had she felt such smooth skin that wasn’t her own. This reminded her of kissing the inside of her own arm back in her teen years, before boyfriends, before marriage, before sex. Sometimes when Bill was away, Mary missed the taste of a kiss so badly she settled for the back of her left hand, the right hand busy and angry between her legs. But her hand, her arm, Bill’s empty pillow, or the tops of her own full breasts could not compare in lusciousness to Cecily under her lips, in her mouth. Her eyes flew open when she realized this might be the only time she’d ever have Cecily this close, with her, in her mouth. She nibbled the ear in front of her and whispered, “Can I take this off you?”

  Cecily answered with a soft, “Yes,” then whispered it again when her best friend’s hand slid under her borrowed gown, stopping inches from her breasts. Her breath hitched, and Mary froze, though she didn’t pull her hand away, just stroked the skin.

  “May I touch your—” Mary wasn’t sure what word she was going to use. Thankfully Cecily kissed her, breathing an unintelligible answer harshly into Mary’s mouth. In her excitement Mary’s hand fumbled, the back of her fingers slapping loudly against the underside of Cecily’s breast. “Sorry!”

  “It’s okay.” Cecily pushed closer, arching her back so her breast easily filled Mary’s open hand. “It’s okay, Mare.” She hissed as Mary gave her a soft squeeze. “Do that again.”

  “This?” Mary held back a smile as she cupped Cecily’s breasts, holding them with her palm, leaving her thumb free to drag heavily across the nipples. Cecily took a few quick, sharp breaths, her mouth falling open like an invitation, so Mary took it. Kissing Cecily and caressing her breasts at the same time reminded Mary of the midday naps she sometimes had, between chores and making dinner, when she’d be so tired she would fall back into bed and doze, bra undone in the front, pillow squeezed between her thighs. She often imagined Cecily across the street in her own house, baking, vacuuming, or even in her own bed, missing her own husband, making her own sheets sticky. She never dreamed—though she always hoped—she’d get the chance to ask. “Cec. How long?”

  Cecily’s trembling hand was on the hem of her own gown, pulling it up to expose her breasts, as if the thin fabric did anything to hide them. “How long what?”

  “How long have you, you know?” Mary kissed Cecily’s mouth open, and they both moaned like they’d been burned when their tongues met. She suddenly couldn’t wait for Cecily’s slow hands. She pulled away far enough to swat at the nightgown straps, wishing she could just cut through them with her teeth. Cecily slithered down, her hands above her head, her knuckles knocking loudly against the wooden headboard.

  “How long have I wanted to kiss you?” wheezed Cecily as she lay flat on her back, her legs slightly spread. She kept her arms still, her breathing coming faster as she watched Mary’s gaze move from her wide eyes to her wet lips to her swollen nipples, then down to the silky underwear—the Saturday Night underwear. Mary recognized the panties from the day they both ordered a pair out of a catalog, giggling as they’d purchased a money order and filled in a fake name for the return address. They were black and sheer and just barely contained the curly hair between Cecily’s legs. Mary held her breath as she ran her finger over the thin strap covering Cecily’s hip and wished she’d worn her own red pair.

  “Yes, I want to know.” Mary drew circles on Cecily’s lower belly before zigzagging down to play with the first, fine hairs covering the pubis. “How long have you wanted this, Cec?” Cecily parted her legs and tilted her hips upward. Mary gasped, imagining that, if Cecily was as wet as she already was, with that small movement the silky panties were pulling deliciously on Cecily’s crotch. Mary whimpered, wanting to look, to press her head down and watch her best friend’s vulva swell. The curiosity nearly got the better of her, and she had to stop herself from ripping the panties away, possibly scaring Cecily, and herself. Instead she worked on her own nightgown, sitting up so she could pull it over her head. Before she could turn back she felt Cecily behind her, breasts warm and comforting against her bare back.

  “A long time,” Cecily whispered as she reached around to caress Mary’s breasts. “I think,” she cooed, rolling the nipples between thumbs and forefingers, “maybe…since I first met you.”

  “Me, too.” Mary dared not look down at Cecily pawing her, squeezing her nipples until they were so hard she could barely feel them anymore. She arched, away from the hard nipples scratching her back, into the possessive hands on her chest, hoping one of them would find its way down into her panties. They were just plain panties, but Mary knew from experience that they felt terrific when pulled tight and rubbed against her clitoris. She turned so they could face each other, kneeling on the bed, hands roaming everywhere within reach. Mary felt lightheaded. “God, Cec. You can’t leave me.”

  “Shh, don’t.” Cecily held Mary’s head still so she could better taste her, tongue making long, deep swipes into Mary’s hungry mouth. “Just kiss me,” she moaned, and moved Mary’s hand from her waist down between her legs. “Just touch me.”

  “Yes.” Even through the panties Cecily felt hot. Mary’s hands shook as she cupped her, fingers pressing down to tease the blood-filled lips. She kept her hand there as Cecily fell on her back and pulled Mary on top of her.

  “Take yours off, too, Mare.”

  “Uh-uh. Don’t wanna move my hand.” Mary punctuated that by dipping her hand inside to cup bare flesh and hair. She pressed, and exclaimed happily at the feeling of fleshy lips and moisture against her palm. Cecily cursed, something she rarely did, when Mary slipped two fingers down to the vaginal introitus. Just pressing the fingers at the opening, not even inside, was enough to make them wet. Mary pulled her hand away and looked at the glistening fingers.

  “Fuck.” Mary wanted to laugh at Cecily’s sudden attack of sailor mouth, but she was too busy watching Cecily jerk her own panties off before grasping at the ones stuck between her legs. Once they were both naked, Mary collapsed on top of her friend, kissing her roughly as she rubbed a thigh between Cecily’s legs. “Keep doing…I’m so hot for you.” Mary stopped long enough to rub her fingers, damp with Cecily’s secretions, over both their mouths. Cecily looked like she might cry as Mary reached down, spreading Cecily’s lips to tease her opening again. “God. Inside. Feel inside me, Mary. Please—oh!” Her eyes squeezed shut, but Mary didn’t have to fear that the middle finger she’d slid inside Cecily’s vagina was hurting her. Cecily grabbed her with arms and legs, and Mary added her index finger. “Damn it,” Cecily whispered, then shoved her tongue deep into Mary’s mouth, kissing her so hard Mary had to pull away to breathe.

  “Want you.” Mary stopped briefly to taste Cecily on her fingers and to adjust herself between Cecily’s wide-open thighs. Cecily took the opportunity to lift Mary’s breasts to her lips, sucking at them greedily as she rubbed her wet genitals frantically against Mary’s thigh.

  “Shit. Aw…fuck.” Mary wondered if Cecily cursed this much when she was with Cliff, if she growled and looked so delicious and smelled so sweet. This time when she slid two licked wet fingers inside, she used her thumb to seek out Cecily’s clitoris at the same time, smiling proudly when Cecily shuddered and started to fall apart underneath her.

  “I want to feel you…come for me.” This was another of Mary’s fantasies—Cecily spread apart, being fucked until she screamed and cried—and Mary could barely believe she was the one doing it, that it was her pounding into Cecily’s wetness and rubbing her stiff clit, that it was her thrusting against Cecily’s pussy. For a second she imagined the four of them, Cliff fucking Cecily’s sex open, then leaving her to finish Cecily off with her mouth and finger
s while Bill took her from behind. It was crazy, but now that she’d tasted Cecily, felt her body, her hardness, her tight insides, Mary’s future fantasies would be that much more vivid. Spreading her legs wide, she pulsed against Cecily’s thigh as she sank her fingers in as far as they’d go.

  “Oh, I’m going to.” Nodding mutely, even though Cecily squeezed her eyes shut, Mary quickly pulled her sticky fingers from Cecily’s musk and went about rubbing frantically at her clit, not stopping until Cecily squealed her name and collapsed into shivers.

  As Cecily caught her breath, Mary wondered what to do. She was used to Bill falling asleep after he finished, rarely asking her if she wanted more. Now she wasn’t sure what to expect.

  “Cecily? Are you—” Being flipped over onto her back was nothing new—Bill rarely let her be on top—but being flipped and spread and kissed roughly, expert hands stroking her sex, was something she was not used to. “Oh…oh.” It was all Mary could utter as she watched Cecily suck on her nipples, tonguing them with the flatness of her tongue as she rubbed circles around her distended clit. Fingers in Cecily’s hair, Mary watched Cecily’s kisses move down, and she spread her thighs wide, hoping to God that Cecily would give her what Bill rarely would, and ineptly well when he tried. “Cec, if you don’t want to…do that… then you don’t have toooooooooooohhhgoooood.” She tried to hold back, but the moment she felt Cecily’s soft wet tongue lapping her clit, she was finished. She rode the orgasm out hard, thrusting against Cecily’s mouth and fingers as if Cecily could ingest enough of her taste and scent to last her the rest of their lives.

  They didn’t move for a while, until someone whispered a faint, “I love you” into the night. Once it was echoed, they fell asleep embracing each other.

  “You’re awfully quiet, honey.” Cliff laid a large hand on his wife’s knee. She patted it lightly, but didn’t answer, just continued watching the world go by from the car window. “I know you’re gonna miss Mary. But you’ll soon love the new place, right?”

  Cecily shifted in her seat. Her dress was scratchier than she’d thought, and the lack of underwear was hard to ignore. But then she thought about Mary, and she smiled. “Yes, dear.”

  “That’s my girl.” Cliff drove silently until coming upon a red light. “Did I tell you I ran into Bill the other day?” Cecily didn’t answer, too preoccupied with shifting in her bucket seat so the fabric of her dress pressed nicely against her labia. “Looks like he’s getting transferred, too. And you’ll never guess where.”

  Cecily clutched the armrest. “Bill’s getting transferred to the same state?”

  “Same state, same county, same town, I think. We’ll all be neighbors again soon.” Cliff watched his wife’s lips part and her eyes sparkle. “Happy now, baby?”

  “Yes. Very happy.” Cecily gave her husband a big wet kiss on the cheek before going back to staring out the window. She crossed her legs, squeezed her thighs together, and fell asleep smiling.

  THE LEOPARD-PRINT MENACE

  Melissa Gira Grant

  I’m her lady, and she’s bent into the smooth white sedan, some street in Springfield throwing itself under her rickety heels in offering. Lady’s girl is soliciting, outside the police station, all ripped fishnet and black patent purse. My girl’s leaning out with overflowing fingers, hands bearing pale yellow sheaves, her Xerox missives: $27 Million to Arrest Prostitutes? No New Jails for Women! “Please? Sir?” She wince-grins at the honks, inevitable, and just like no one told her to, defies the yellow line.

  It’s cold, February, all white. My boyfriend hangs back on the curb, newer than any of us to the winter protest thing. We’re flanked by more of Springfield’s finest—my girls in black, defiant boots and leather. This is what Massachusetts vice looks like: some of my best friends and lovers.

  “Let me kiss your lady hands.” She brings my cold hands up to her mouth. That’s when she named me.

  She crashed right next to me, getting guerrilla on my unsuspecting little porno practicum, taking a place at my side and being so fucking smart. I’d been asked to “come and speak to the sex worker’s experience” for a class, barely more than a student myself. I certainly didn’t have the papers yet. I climbed up on top of the teacher’s desk to avoid the podium and there she was, seated at my hand.

  Afterward, we traipsed across snow in the winter sun—I had high-heeled boots, and she had on these little silver slides—to prop ourselves on piles of laundry and bent-up zines and crushed pills in a dark little dorm that neither of us belonged in, dropouts both. We were swapping tales of sexually transmitted woe and back-of-the-free-paper ad copy, and “Can you really get off with all that in the way?” “Is pussy-eating dead?” and “So you can make enough money off this town?” and yes, yes. Yes—and no, no need to scrimp on Saran wrap, even in these leanest of times.

  She told me she hooked up with her pimp momma and the accompanying aspiring anarcho lesbo ho collective (which must be said with high camp and an upturned girls’-school nose) after quitting a lefty canvassing job the summer before. All you had to do was ring up one of those numbers in the back of the free paper promising Body and Mind, These Girls Have it All and when the woman on the other end asked if you read Michelle Tea, it was like activating some sort of secret baby dyke escort code.

  I laid my ho drama at her breast, having emptied our college cow town’s rather limited larder of cash opportunities myself, burning bridges at the nudie bars, modeling for everyone (except the much-rumored pothead who would plead to jerk off on your face for a box cover shot, a messy deceit), pulling my “personal” ad after Yahoo complained (Petite pervy undergrad, 23, requires tutelage from a gentle mentor. Can you help me with my homework? Tenure optional, tuition required.).

  When I have to go I gather my things and I let her be the cool one and orchestrate the swap of addresses (her hotel for my group house, and our online journals, and my phone). We both promise to really. Really. Get together. Soon.

  I lose a little gray velvet glove in the lecture hall and so I wait as one lady hand gets cold.

  We never have a first date. We have a full-on fucking engagement.

  On my bed, we lube our life stories with two bottles of wine before nary a strap-on comes down from the shelf. We are showing off the way femmes do for each other. Our being theory-head femmes, it’s got an even deeper kink.

  She examines my books and takes the best ones into the bathroom with her: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, with irony; my course reader for The Politics of Sex, without. “Read the ‘Imperial Leather’ essay, it’s brilliant!” I say through the door. She pauses only to take charge of my housemate’s over-sprouted bread sitting out on the counter, butters up thick slices for me and for her. She’s talking while she’s eating and saying not nice things for her prowess as a ho while gathering sunflower seeds into little handfuls. “I’m a lousy bang for the buck. I’m really more of a vibrator, a sex appliance, a consumer luxury.”

  Going with her to get more cigarettes from the Dairy Mart—and you can tell I want her, because I smoke with her—our oldschool wine-stained lips set off a volley with the guys hanging out front. Even in January in New England, drunk boys will cruise the lot there and strut as easy marks, but starriest among them is a queen who is famous to me for doing Dionysus in Little Richard drag in last spring’s production of The Bacchae, and he seems impressed with us, our delicate and drunken steps and arms almost touching and laughing for real together for the first time from his glam.

  We strip down to trashy undies in my room and overwork the dim lighting into digital shots for my camera of us doing our best impersonations of ourselves. She pronounces my legs “stripper haunches” and I get her in a series of images doing her perfect thinky come-on face, with the pout and the conjoined female symbol charm just underneath it. “Let’s put these on your live journal!” she says and she and I get what proves to be our foreplay published online before either of us gets an orgasm in edgewise over the congratulatory digital ch
atter of friends, strangers and lovers.

  “Don’t you have a harness?” she asks, the requisite fondling and kissing starting to feel too cloying to match the night that preceded it. I let her ride me, reaching up when she pulls me, grabbing and holding her firm, just one of her tits. She asks when she dismounts, dildo in hand, “Can we update your journal again?”

  One last post, and we go under the covers, until she gets too hot to be too close—never can stay the whole night until my last one with her, always gets the laptop or a book and nests with those at the edge of the bed when our bodies and the distance between needs broaching—and we go to sleep so wasted and still making sense, burned at the edges and preserved for posterity, sleeping the day away until we’re next called to duty, at ease, entwined and ready.

  THE BACHELORETTE

  Julia Peters

  When I hear there’s a party of twelve, all women, for 9:00 p.m., I am surprised. This is a hundred-year-old steakhouse, and while things have changed in the last hundred years, we’re not usually a destination for girls’ night out.

  “I hope they don’t just order a bunch of salad and salmon. White wine,” I say to my friend Alan, who is also assigned to the table.

  “How sexist, Sage,” he says. “Simone de Beauvoir would be appalled. So would Courtney Love.”

  “You have to download some music from this century,” I say, hoisting my tray and heading back out to the floor.

  As it turns out, these are Porterhouse and scotch kinds of girls, my kind of girls, at a much higher price point. It also turns out to be a bachelorette party, and I’ve seen the bachelorette in question in here before.