Girl Crush

by R. Gay

  She’s come in a half dozen times that I’ve seen her, with her boyfriend. At first I noticed her because the boyfriend is a bass player with a superfamous anthem-rock band that has managed to hold on for the last twenty-five years. She was, on any given night, one of the youngest women in here. She is also perfect, rock’n’ roll perfect, wearing diamond-and-skull jewelry and boots that nearly reach her hips. Her hair is glossy, long and black. She hangs on the bass player’s every word, yet seems completely confident and royal. If girls like her came to my band’s shows, I’d know we’ve made it. Three years in, I don’t see the end in sight, or this tray of sirloins coming off my shoulder any time soon.

  So here she is, about to marry the bass player, wearing a metallic purple minidress and giggling sweetly as she opens box after box of unmentionable underthings.

  She looks phenomenal, as always. She says, “Thank you,” in a demure whisper every time I give her something—a new fork, another Hennessey, an extra shopping bag for the presents. She looks up at me from beneath her eyelashes. She introduces herself as Sasha and says to let her know if they get too rowdy. They don’t want anyone to be annoyed with them.

  I’m used to getting hit on here, but by men. This is interesting. That is, if she’s hitting on me.

  “Your lady and her friends are not a complete nightmare after all,” Alan says as we go over the bill together, three hours later.

  “My lady? I don’t even know her.”

  “Please. Every time she comes in here your tongue rolls across the floor like a red carpet.”

  I smile at him. “Okay, she’s totally hot. But I’m straight.”

  “So far,” he says.

  They shut down the restaurant. My manager is unusually okay with this because they’ve thrown so much money around and managed not to piss anyone off. Tonight, Alan and I have made what we’d normally earn in a week. He and my manager leave. I agree to hang out in case the bachelorette needs anything. I’m also hoping to talk to Sasha, not that I know what I would say.

  I’d usually sit at the bar and have a scotch with our mixologist, Brian, but I’m beat from working the party and don’t need a drink. I go out the back to the loading dock area for a cigarette. This is an industrial area and it’s usually pretty quiet and lonely out here.

  The side door opens and Sasha struts out. I can see her shoes now, Louboutins with red soles, gold and death-defyingly high. She smiles.

  “End of the night?” she asks, gesturing at my cigarette.

  “Yeah. I was going to go check out my friend’s band, but I think I’ll skip it at this point.”

  “You play, right?”

  “Yeah, lead guitar. How did you…?”

  “You chatted with my fiancé once about his group. You sounded like you knew what you were talking about. A lot of girls don’t.”

  “I don’t know those girls.”

  Sasha rolls her eyes. “I do.” I laugh. She walks over to me and takes out her own cigarette from a metal case, and I give her a light.

  “Do you guys need anything in there?”

  “We ordered espressos. Brian took care of it.”

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, please. We’re keeping you here late and you guys were all so accommodating tonight. I really appreciate it.”

  I take a drag and nod. She takes a long drag and drops the cigarette, puts it out after a few puffs. She stands before me and I have the distinct impression I should put mine out, too. I stub it out on the brick wall next to me.

  “So, congratulations. On your marriage.”

  Sasha laughs, low and throaty, the girlishness disappearing. “Thanks. He’s making an honest woman out of me. Kinda.”

  “Kinda?”

  “I love the guy. I really do. But we have an understanding. He travels a lot, which requires my understanding. And I…like to play. He is very understanding of that.”

  Her words are so well rehearsed. I wonder how many times she has given this speech, but I’m also getting very excited that I’m getting the speech.

  “Really?”

  She takes a step toward me. In her crazy heels she is about my height. “Really.”

  It’s now or never. I run my fingers through her hair and she sighs a little. “And…uh,” I glance toward the door. “How understanding are your friends?”

  “Very. It is my night after all.”

  “Yes, it is,” I say. Sasha puts her hands around my face and pulls me into a soft, luscious kiss. It is hot and off-putting at the same time. It’s too gentle for me. But maybe that will change.

  When she pulls away I say, “I should tell you I haven’t done this before.”

  “Swinging?”

  “Girls.”

  “Oh,” she says. She sizes me up to see if I’m worth the risk. “But you want me?”

  “Fuck, yeah. I’d have to be insane not to want you.”

  She likes this answer. “Show me.”

  “Come here,” I say. She steps toward me, expecting a kiss, but I walk her with me back a few steps, behind a short wall, so we’re out of immediate view of the street and the small window in the side door. I twirl her around so her back is against the wall and pin her shoulders with my hands. I take a long look at her, all of her, and then draw a long, rough kiss out of her.

  She’s out of breath when I let her go, panting. I drop to my knees. The concrete hurts, but I like something about that, about this whole scene. I reach under her dress and grab her ass, kiss her once through the dress, about where her pussy is, kind of a preliminary for myself. Then I pull her down on top of me.

  There is absolutely no challenge in this dress. The V-neck ends at the halt of her rib cage. A little string across the back of her neck keeps it from falling to the floor. It is a rock ’n’ roll dress, the dress of the woman who is with the band, the headliner, the one who fucked her way out of the groupie pit. Sasha does not need a bra, in the best possible way.

  “Shouldn’t you take me somewhere?” she asks. She looks shocked, a little ticked, but still turned on, so fuck it.

  “Is that what your girls usually do?” I decide I’m not going to pull the little string that undoes the dress. That’s what the string is there for, so it’s a chump move. Instead I pull the top of the dress to one side, as rough as I can manage without ripping it. Not that she would care. Her breast is firm and small with a hard, dark nipple. I lick it once, roll it between my fingers as I continue to talk.

  “They take you somewhere?” I get my hands back under her delicious little bare ass and pull her onto my lap. She inhales hard. I’m proud of myself for continuing to surprise this girl who has probably seen a lot more than I have.

  “Well, I’ve never done this before, but I’m not one of your girls.” I pull the back of the dress up to her hips. I run my hand smooth and quick around to the front and then between her legs. To my surprise there is soft silk there—I don’t feel the waistband of the thong.

  I move my fingers beneath her panties. There is the slightest brush of hair on her mound. She parts her legs a bit to let me feel her and to my relief she is very wet—relief because I really don’t know what I’m doing, and if this girl wasn’t hot for me already, I wouldn’t know the mechanics of how to get her going. I tell my brain to stop thinking of this searingly hot girl like she’s a math problem. My brain shuts the fuck up.

  “And anyway, is it really going to be a problem if any your friends see you?”

  She laughs soft and low and throws her head back. The unspoken answer is no, it won’t. Her friends won’t be surprised. They might even join us. I don’t think she’d mind any of the restaurant staff either. No one is going to snap a picture, we’re too discreet. I lean down and pull that beautiful nipple back in my mouth.

  Sasha gets her hands on my thighs, beneath her own, pushes herself up and arches back to ride me. She is quick and light, moving up and down magnificently, like she took a class in fucking someone’s finger. I turn my hand so
my finger is curving slightly inside her and she comes down on my palm. I think about circling her clit or something but she’s moving fast and I don’t want to get in her way. Instead I cover her breast back up, then move the material aside from the other one and get to work on it with my tongue. I can feel her open lips and clit against my hand when she comes down on it. It’s pretty amazing.

  She moves her head back toward me and slows her movement. I come up from her tit. With one hand she pushes me back, then farther back, so I throw my free hand behind me to keep myself from falling. Sasha repositions herself a bit so she’s now sitting in the palm of my hand with my finger completely inside her.

  “Another finger,” she says breathily. I do what the lady says. She moves back and forth, grinding with my two fingers inside her. They seem to fill her up. Now she’s rubbing her clit against my palm. She moans breathily, little “oh’s” coming from between her lacquered lips.

  She looks me over briefly, appraising my buttoned-up white shirt and my bun, my black slacks and my shiny black lace-up shoes.

  “Take your hair down,” she says. She stops moving but flexes her vaginal muscles around my fingers. It’s cool as hell.

  There’s no way for me to reach my hair without falling flat on my back. “You have to do it,” I say. She takes out the barrettes and lets them drop. My blonde hair falls half out of its up-do. Sasha undoes the buttons on my shirt without asking. She yanks my plain beige bra, a work bra, down and my breasts fall forward.

  “I going to come very, very soon,” she says in this pouty, bad schoolgirl way. I bet that turns the rock star on. “I wanna suck on those big beautiful tits while I do. Give them to me, baby, please.”

  I think she likes it when she talks. Whatever, I like it too. She stays there, starting to move back and forth again very gently, so wet, restraining herself from working toward her orgasm. Oh, I get it. “Suck on my tits, Sasha.” She moans and falls forward on them, both hands around them, and starts licking my nipples and sucking on them gently.

  She starts to grind toward coming again and now those hot little “oh’s” are muffled by my tits and she’s singing “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!” into my body. This girl is all rock ’n’ roll and entitlement, all flutter and perfume and tobacco. And I’m about to make her come. Right now, I feel like the rock star. I would tell her to say my name, but she probably doesn’t remember it.

  I can smell the sweet musk from her cunt, her overly sweet perfume, and the smells of grilled steak and scotch and the musty, putrid street. I can smell my own sweat and hard work. It actually smells good.

  She takes her mouth off me and puts her hands over my tits, furiously bucking now. It’s an effort just to keep my hand in the right spot but I do it. She yells once, and I stop bracing myself against the dock with my free hand to pull her face to mine by her blown-out hair. She gasps but I think it’s a good gasp—she keeps going. I should tell her to shut up but I’m loving this way too much at this point so instead I tell her, “Tell me I’m making you come. Tell me. Tell me.”

  “Oh, god,” she sighs, close to my ear but not so quiet that it takes away from how hot this is. I’m still holding her by her hair, mainly to keep from falling over. “You’re making me come, you’re making me—oh, god!”

  “That’s it,” I say, and start finger-fucking her again as she meets my hand with every thrust. “That’s it, come for me, come on.”

  “Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah—oh! Oh! Fuck, I’m coming! I’m coming! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” She throws her arms around me and shudders and bucks and squeals as she comes. She is absolutely magnificent. My guess is she always comes.

  Sasha is still moving, coyly shuddering now and then, when she drops one hand down to unbutton my pants. This isn’t what I want exactly. I want Sasha in a bed sucking my clit and licking me to orgasm after orgasm on high thread count sheets, fucking me from behind with a strap-on while I look out at the city from a penthouse window, masturbating for me with her legs wide open sitting in a chair. I want us licking champagne off each other in a hotel room we’ve been in for days. It had never occurred to me to want all these things from her until this night. I don’t really want a hand job in an alley as an afterthought.

  Her aftershocks subside and Sasha pulls my hand out of her cunt. She takes my fingers and sucks on them as she winds both her small hands down into my underwear. Her taste seems to turn her on. I’m not surprised.

  I’m as wet now as I was when we started. The long manicured nails of her one hand flick along the lips of my cunt, while the other hand finds my clit and starts working on it, jerking me with her fingertips ever so lightly. She starts putting her fingers inside me—they are so delicate that there are three inside me before I realize she’s easily sliding in a fourth. I look at her. Her eyes are closed, concentrating on her fingers’ rhythm, but also on her own; she’s moving her hips in almost-violent circles like a belly dancer and running her tongue around my fingers in circles that match, turned on enough to make herself come again with barely any assistance from me.

  I don’t move. I’m in awe—of what I’m doing here on the loading dock where anyone could see me, of what I’m doing with this incredible woman, who I wish I could have and wish I could be. I’m in awe of the tornado that’s ripping through her for a second time as she ohhs and mmms and grabs what she wants for herself again. I’m in awe of her expert fingers, of a technique she must have patented or something as she coaxes and teases and then at last pulls my orgasm out of my cunt, my clit, my sore feet and knotted shoulders. I laugh deeply as it happens. I laugh at how absurd this is. My clit practically glows, warmly spasming in a consistent, steady pulse. She keeps going and so do I. She finishes and opens her eyes to watch me laugh and twitch between her fingertips.

  “You’re a very interesting woman.”

  I don’t know how to take this. It’s a compliment in my mind, but probably not coming from her. She didn’t say what a hot girl I was or anything. I realize what Sasha is about, and I could be about that for a while, but not for long. She withdraws her hand. I notice she doesn’t taste her own fingers.

  Sasha tilts her head toward me and shimmies her ass a little. “Do you wanna come with us to the party?”

  I button up my pants and start working on the shirt. “This wasn’t the party?”

  Sasha moves the top of her dress over an inch to cover her breast back up.

  She smiles. “Well, you certainly were, baby. But in there was just dinner. We’re just getting started.”

  THE GIRL IN THE GORILLA SUIT

  Lori Selke

  It all started the night that she fell into my arms—literally. I was front and center stage at my favorite club on my favorite night. Every other Friday night, Club Cameo threw a Disco Circus party. It was cheesy, but intentionally so. They’d throw up a disco ball, get the DJ to play anything bass thumping and booty twitching, and then on the hour, they’d do a little circus skit up on stage. Sometimes it was burlesque dancers. Sometimes it was clowns. Sometimes it was clown burlesque—I will never forget the girl who used red rubber noses as pasties and ended her act by honking them. Toot, toot!

  Sometimes there were aerial acts. I loved watching these. When I was just a little baby dyke, my favorite activity in gym class was climbing the rope to the top of the rafters in the gymnasium. I loved to race the boys to the top, and as I was smaller and lighter and just as strong, I almost always beat them. So it was a special thrill to watch someone twist and turn—dance, really, with the rope as a partner—high above the club. I could imagine myself as the woman in the air, looking so graceful, flexible and beautiful. The patrons would stop dancing for a moment and hold their breath, faces upturned into the stage lights.

  And then there were the odder acts, the ones that loosely fell under the rubric “freak show.” They were just skits of high silliness, sometimes more successful than others. The girl who walked on broken glass—hot. The bearded lady? Strangely hot. The guy who yelled, “Human fir
ehose!” before spitting his drink all over the front row? Not so hot.

  The night I fell in love, it was an animal act. Some lovely long blonde thing was dressed as an animal tamer. Tall boots, tails and top hat—and red satin corset and short shorts: very nice. She had a series of performers in animal costume perform “tricks” for her: she turned a fierce lion into a purring pussycat; a man in an elephant mask (no trunk puns, fortunately) let her ride on his back; and then there was the gorilla.

  She was a girl gorilla; you could tell because she wore a pink polka-dot bikini. She also sported blonde braids with bows to match her outfit.

  She was also a naughty gorilla. The animal tamer offered her bananas, but she just stole them and refused to do tricks. Finally, the animal tamer grabbed the gorilla girl and tried to turn her over her knee for a spanking.

  I think the gorilla girl was supposed to struggle and protest. I don’t think she was supposed to struggle so hard that she slipped right out of the animal tamer’s lap. The tamer had placed her portable folding chair right near the edge of the stage, so we could all get a better view of the mock spanking, so when the gorilla girl started to fall, she had nowhere to go but right over the lip of the stage and into the audience.

  Which is how I suddenly found myself on a Friday night with my arms full of a girl in a gorilla suit, surrounded by applause.

  I don’t really know how I managed to catch her. All I know is that I was cradling her in my arms like a baby, the audience was roaring all around me and I was looking into her eyes. They were the only feature I could see. They looked both frightened and relieved. I lowered her carefully to her feet. She grabbed my face and “kissed” me—pressed her rubber lips to mine. It would have meant nothing, if not for what came next.

  She pulled my head down to speak into my ear. “Thank you so much, you saved my life!” she said. Her voice was muffled by the mask, but I could still make out the words. It was husky, low, the kind of voice that always sounds like it’s mocking you, but I could tell she was sincere (if hyperbolic) this time. She tousled my hair with her furry gloved paw, and then she was gone.