Girl Crazy

by Sacchi Green

  I sit up suddenly to undo the clasp of my bra and slide it off, wanting to feel her skin against mine. The pounding at the door has turned into a steady stream of pleas to be let in. Beverly stares at me like a stoned blow-up doll, saliva dotting the corners of her crumpled mouth.

  “Take off your pants,” I say quickly, impatient now. She complies, moving slowly as if through water, and pushes her sweats and thong to her ankles. I yank them off and there it is: the hottest pussy in town. A perfectly etched landing strip leading to petal lips. I can barely wait to taste her. Without taking her eyes off mine, she lets her knees fall open, a porn-star smile oozing across her face.

  “Welcome to my jewel,” she says, and laughs from deep in her throat. It’s a practiced line.

  “Don’t give me any of that crap,” I snap, and her eyes flicker but she doesn’t say anything more.

  “Touch your tits,” I whisper to her, wanting to make her work for it. I nudge her belly with my knuckles when she doesn’t move. She cups her perfect, tear-shaped breasts absentmindedly, her eyes fixed in space. I lower my head to her flat stomach, and then kiss the wide bowl of her hips. Slowly, slowly, entirely aware of her breathing, I go farther down. I lick a finger and work it deep into her cunt. She stiffens.

  “Relax,” I say. She stirs slightly and sighs, as though waking from a long nap. The pounding on the door has stopped: Weasel Boy has left the building. Her body unclenches inch by inch, melting into the mattress. I feel my insides ripening.

  I move to pull on her labia, wanting to tease her, nibbling her musky lips. Her pussy has the smell of summer blacktop just after it rains: semisweet, with an undercurrent of metal, and something unnamable. I press my face into her clit, drumming a steady rhythm with my tongue piercing. Beverly begins almost imperceptibly to rock against it, pushing up into my mouth, asking for more. I quickly feed in another finger, and then another. A guttural sound escapes her throat.

  When I sense that she’s buzzing hot as electrical wires, I press my thumb against her anus, feeling the resistance and pushing past it. She gasps, and I hear her head thrash against the pillows. Slowly I bury my thumb in her ass, and Beverly moans in response. Her clit has hardened to a perfect pearl beneath the frenzied flicking of my tongue as I drive her on. My jaw aches almost as much as my pussy, which I’m dying to touch but I don’t dare, not yet, not yet. Her rocking gives way to slow bucking, each thrust accompanied by a staccato of yeses that make Beverly sound like a deflating snake. She’s close, her orgasm a fiery star of promise just below the horizon. I stop abruptly.

  I raise my head to look at Beverly. Her beautiful face is a grimace of absolute pleasure, and she’s gripping her tits like twin bazookas she’s aiming to fire at my head. Her knees have gone typewriter, and a red map of Africa stands out on her chest. Her eyes are squinched shut, but as the cold air of my tongue’s absence hits her cunt, they fly open.

  “Don’t stop,” she stammers, staring right at me.

  “Say please,” I say, torturing her. I’ve never heard her use the word.

  “Please…please!” She’s panting like a desperate animal.

  I want to shout with triumph, but I drop my head again to taste her pithy juice.

  “And”—flick, pause—“ that you’re sorry”—flick-flick, longer pause—“for being such a bitch.” I hover.

  “I’m sorry,” she cries, the words catching in her throat. “I’m so sorryyyy!”

  My tongue is a zigzag of pleasure bearing down on her clit, pushing her over the edge. Her orgasm hurtles out of the darkness to explode within, the waves rolling over her as she lets loose a stream of dirty-ass, ecstatic cussing. I try to press into her as her body convulses again and again like a Sunday preacher who’s just found the spirit. Finally, she collapses back on the bed, exhausted, to lie in her own juices.

  I wipe my mouth, still tasting her, and climb up to lie next to her, both of us on our backs, breathing heavily, not touching. After a while I roll over on my side to face her.

  “How’s it feel?” I take her hand to suck on one of her Tootsie Roll fingers. Not that she’ll need it when I get her to work on me; I’m already wet, wetter than I’ve ever been before.

  “What?” Beverly is fuck-faced; her eyes make her look like Rip Van Winkle. But I can already tell she’ll learn this shit quick. And be good at it.

  A victorious smile creeps across my face.

  “To not be a virgin anymore.”

  I AM NOT INTO WOMEN

  Jacqueline Applebee

  I am not, and I have never been, into women. I never experimented when I was in college, I never got so drunk that I accidentally kissed my female pals, and I never put on a show for any of my boyfriends as a special treat on their birthday.

  But then I met Sheryl. Giggles were the soundtrack to her life. Every time I saw her, she was laughing about some silly thing or another. No one had the right to be that happy all the bloody time. Whenever I thought of her, and I seemed to think about her a lot, I could hear girly giggles in the background. It was like having voices in my head, but worse, because I knew I wasn’t crazy—she was. There was no reason for any of this. I wasn’t into women, and if I ever could be, it sure as hell wouldn’t be a ginger-haired girl who thought that Hello Kitty was the most important thing in her life.

  Everyone has an inner child, but Sheryl’s redheaded child was right in my face. She worked two days a week at my office, and every time she came in, she brought sweeties to share. When she talked, especially when she stood close to me, her breath was aniseed twists, butter toffee, and chocolate caramels. Sheryl’s desk was covered in little stuffed toys. Her computer desktop showed an image of a cartoon cat. This girl was unreal! How had she got through her interview for this job? I never used to be so bitter until Sheryl started working in the office. I felt undermined—all the men would laugh about her juvenile antics, and I began to worry that as the only other woman in the workplace, I would get lumped in with their view of her.

  I started to avoid Sheryl, as I couldn’t stand the constant childishness that made me feel stiff and awkward and…old. And that was the thing, really. She made me feel old, and I hated her for it. That jolly white girl didn’t have a care. I was a working-class black woman, and I knew all the hurdles that stood in my path. My life was not all fun and games, and I was serious for good reason.

  I was making a cup of tea one afternoon when she came into the small kitchen that the office used. I mentally sighed, and braced myself for another mindless conversation.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” She pointed at my arm, to the black tattoo that lay over the dark brown skin of my bicep. “It’s a pretty star,” she continued when I remained silent, desperately trying to ignore her.

  “It’s a snowflake,” I said with gritted teeth. She raised an eyebrow and nodded, but then reached out and stroked her finger across it. I shivered right down to the soles of my feet, and Sheryl jerked away at my reaction in the same instant. We looked at each other, but the moment was broken as two guys from technical support walked in, chatting loudly. I was intensely grateful for their interruption—I am not into women, never had been, and I didn’t want to start now. That went double for women who behaved like silly little girls.

  If I had avoided Sheryl before, I was even more elusive afterward. I refused to believe the intensity of her touch had affected me so much. I gave my good friend and coworker Georgio a hand job after work on Friday evening in an attempt to exorcise Sheryl from my brain. I memorized the feel of his dick in my hand, wanting it to replace the feeling that Sheryl had elicited from me. I am not into women. I chanted the five words until they became my mantra.

  I am not into women, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  “I’m going to get a tattoo,” Sheryl confided quietly to me one afternoon, as I washed my cup in the kitchen sink. I fought the urge to look around and check that she wasn’t speaking to someone else. She pointed to her hip. “I want to have some little r
oses, here.” I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the spot on her skirt she had indicated. “Does it hurt?”

  I counted to five before I replied, “It hurts like hell.” Her pretty face fell, and I suddenly wanted to move heaven and earth to make her smile again. What was happening to me?

  “Will you come with me?”

  “What?”

  “Will you come with me when I get my tattoo done? I’m a bit nervous about it.”

  I stared at her. Why was she asking me? I had done my best to avoid her, had never appeared friendly, never laughed along with her stupid behavior…I realized she was still smiling at me.

  “Sure, why not?” I said, and she giggled and skipped away. I’m not joking, she actually skipped out of the room, and her ginger hair bounced with every hop she made. I was most definitely going crazy. I didn’t do this sort of thing. I never did this sort of thing. I am not into women, least of all with some laughing girl-child.

  Georgio had eaten something funny at lunch, and he spent the rest of the afternoon throwing up out in the men’s toilets. He mumbled something about a deadline as he dove for the rest-room. I remembered that he had been working on a report that was due in the next morning. I shifted over to his desk, and eyed the scribbled notes in his scrawled handwriting. Georgio was a great guy, and my regular “friend-with-benefits,” but right then, I wanted to hit him.

  I had just shoved a huge stack of papers out of the way when Sheryl popped her head around the door. Her face took on a disappointed frown. “I’m sorry,” I said, not daring to look at her any longer. “I’m snowed under.”

  She smiled tightly, and spun around without saying a word. It was the first time I’d known her to be silent. I was so glad when she left; my fascination with someone I didn’t even like was starting to wear on my nerves. Compared to Sheryl, Georgio’s incomprehensible report was bliss.

  I didn’t see Sheryl again until the next week. I was entering the ladies’ toilets, and she was coming out. When she saw me, she grabbed my hand and yanked me into the nearest stall.

  I am not into women. I am not into—oh god, she was saying something to me. Her glossy pink lips moved at an amazing speed.

  “I did it!” she yelped excitedly, shuffling out of her tight jeans. I couldn’t believe what she was doing, so I stood dumbly in the cramped space, transfixed by the private striptease I was being treated to. She giggled constantly as she disrobed, and at one stage, she had to pause and take a few deep breaths before she could continue. I was frozen in place while I tried to remember exactly what it was that I wasn’t into.

  Finally her too-tight jeans bunched around her knees, and I zeroed in on her white patterned knickers. Hello Kitty winked at me from a dozen different poses, and I suddenly felt like a dirty old woman. Sheryl pulled the elastic to the side, and that’s when I saw her tattoo. A beautiful cluster of red and yellow rosebuds had been etched onto her pale skin in a loose bouquet. It was absolutely lovely. My finger reached out, and I drew a tip over the flesh that was warm and smooth. I looked up when I heard a hungry gasp, and was surprised at the big blue eyes that gazed down at me. I stepped away, feeling ashamed, seedy and sordid. I backed into the door, fumbling with the lock, but Sheryl’s hand slammed it shut the second I had it open.

  “I’m not a child,” she breathed huskily.

  “I never said you were.” Where had all the air gone?

  “I want you,” she growled dangerously, and I started with fright. I’d heard of sexual predators before, and I’d foolishly assumed that they were only ever men. This playful kitty had suddenly turned into a lioness. There was no way she could be attracted to me. I was old enough to be her—She kissed me before I could get any further. In truth, I didn’t know what else to say, apart from “I’m not into women,” but at that moment, it seemed as if that was a lie. Her lips were the softest things I had ever felt, and her tongue was the most delicious morsel I had ever tasted. My mantra disappeared as Sheryl kissed me more.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said gently after she released me. Her hand reached to my blouse, and she slipped a finger over the buttons, expertly undoing them with a flick. I couldn’t move as she reached inside my black bra and cupped a heavy brown breast. She tweaked a nipple so gently that I almost sobbed for more. No one had ever touched me like that before. Why had it taken me so long to get into women? I was approaching thirty, and this was my first experience. I wanted to scream with the injustice of it all, but my body had other plans.

  Sheryl bent over and sucked my nipple into her mouth. Every drop of blood in my veins seemed to zoom in on that small piece of dark flesh, and I swear I felt it grow at least an inch. Why would I be afraid of this? It wasn’t as if I were being devoured by a beautiful flame-haired creature of the night. My hands tangled in her fiery tresses as I drew her to me. She groaned at the action, and the tremors of her voice made my whole body reverberate. Somehow my fingers returned to her tattoo, but this time I slipped inside the band of her stupid knickers, and into the hot wet part of her.

  My mind knew the anatomical names for a woman’s genitals. I had studied a little biology when I was younger, but in the here and now, the words seemed cold. Vulva, clitoris, mons, and labia were clinical words for the wondrous heaven I found myself in.

  “Cunt,” I whispered. “Pussy.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Sheryl giggled against my breast, and this time when laughter overtook her, I joined in too. She pulled away from my tits, leaving me cold and wet, but I didn’t care; I was knuckle-deep inside Sheryl’s cunt, curling my fingers against a special place inside her. I was suddenly grateful for my biology lessons. The bump above my fingertips meant that I was now massaging her G-spot. The stuttering gasp meant that I was doing something very right. I felt her muscles clench and unclench around me, and it was unlike anything I had ever known.

  I was now into women, quite literally so. I continued to work my fingers inside Sheryl, and she sighed when she came, and then giggled like a child. I somehow knew that I would never get tired of that noise.

  Surprisingly strong hands pulled my fingers out of her cunt, and she held my sticky digits up to my face. I faltered for a moment as I stared at my glistening fingers. I had only gotten as far as “I’m not into…” when I took a breath, and then stuck my fingers into my mouth, licking and sucking every trace of her into me. Sheryl smiled, and kissed me once more. We swapped spit and her juices, a tangled mess that was anything but childish.

  “You were right,” she whispered against my neck. “The tattoo—it hurt like hell.”

  “Let me kiss it better?” I asked hopefully.

  She stepped back a fraction, and I squatted down in the small space of the stall. I pressed my lips to her painted rosebuds, and then I licked over them. The sound of giggles rang out once more. I was officially into women, and I knew I’d be getting into this particular woman a whole lot more from now on. I stifled a chuckle, and kept on licking.

  MUDDY WATERS

  Kristina Wright

  I was completely out of my element and scared out of my mind. Against my better judgment, I had foolishly fallen in lust with an outdoorsy girl with a taste for extreme sports, and after three months of tame dates, she’d insisted I try something she liked. So, instead of sitting in a coffee shop sipping double-shot espressos while discussing Molière, which would have been my preference, I was bouncing around in a Jeep that had once been bright yellow and was now mud brown. It was mud brown because we were driving—bouncing, more like it—through mud. It wasn’t just the Jeep that was muddy. Becky looked like a spa treatment gone horribly wrong, and I could only imagine that I looked just as bad.

  While I clung to the Jeep for dear life, fearing the flimsy seat belt was inadequate to the task of keeping me contained in the vehicle, Becky bounced and whooped like she was on a thrill ride, her once-blonde braids caked with mud. We were out in the country somewhere south of Baltimore, some place I’d never been and hadn’t even known existed until
Becky had brought me there along narrow back roads that gave way to gravel roads ending in wide open fields dotted with wildflowers and scrub brush. After a three-day summer rain, the fields were little more than one big mud pool, and Becky thought this was the greatest thing in the world. Which made me question her sanity—and mine, for going along with this.

  “Isn’t this freakin’ awesome, Kate?” she yelled over the sound of the engine and the wind whipping through the open Jeep as she made donuts in a particularly deep mud bog. “Man, I’ve missed muddin’!”

  I forced a smile and was rewarded with a splatter of mud across my teeth. “Oh yeah, it’s great,” I shrieked, hoping that was a bit of rock between my teeth and not a bug. “Don’t know why we didn’t do this sooner.”

  Becky ran the Jeep up a slight incline and we went flying over it into another mud bog at the edge of a stand of trees. My stomach lurched and I closed my eyes, which only seemed to make it worse. Coming out hadn’t been all that big a deal for me, but I had never imagined coming out quite this far for love.

  “You okay?” she said, bringing the Jeep to a stop. “You look kind of green.”

  With my eyes still closed, I nodded slightly. “Fine, fine. Just a little queasy.”

  She patted my arm. “You’ll be okay. You just need to get out and stretch your legs. C’mon!”

  I groaned as I struggled out of the Jeep. I hoped she wasn’t planning on taking me on a thirty-mile hike through the woods. Standing next to the Jeep, I bent over and took some deep breaths. All I could smell was the earthy aroma of mud—not a pleasant smell.

  Becky was messing around at the back of the Jeep and singing “Sweet Home Alabama,” when I finally was able to get my stomach to agree not to discharge its contents. I watched as she removed a cooler from a webbed cargo net, along with a rolled blanket. My heart leapt—it didn’t look like we were going hiking at all! There was a goddess!