Girl Crazy

by Sacchi Green

  Then when it was time to go, we made plans to hang out and study on Thursday night. I walked down to the mall on air, and nothing, not the stupid girls giggling over the vibrators or their equally stupid boyfriends trying to look goth, dented my mood. Time flew by and history got to be my favorite class.

  When the big day finally rolled around, Janeece opened the door and stood aside when I showed up. She was wearing this amazing shirt that showed more cleavage than I’d ever dare to. I made myself not get all gross and drooly, but it took everything I had. Instead I was all slick and like, “Whoa, that’s some shirt.” Only I hate talking like that because it makes me sound like a moron.

  She grinned at me. “Tony’s coming over later.”

  Of course he was. My mood hit rock bottom. “Well, maybe I should take off…” I mumbled as she grabbed my arm and dragged me inside. After that, it was all lust and history until I couldn’t take it anymore. “Gotta go crash, my friend. See you this weekend?” For an answer, she hugged me.

  Now this wasn’t just any hug, not like I’m an expert or anything. But still. It was the full-body clench, her breasts pressing mine down, her hips against mine. I almost kissed her neck, right where her soft brown skin hovered just beneath my lips. Somehow, I made myself stop and walk away.

  Then back again that weekend. Lather, rinse, repeat for a few weeks until midterms were looming. This time when I went over on a Thursday night, Tony wasn’t coming over later. In fact, if Tony was messing with the cheerleader Janeece thought he was messing with, Big T was out of the picture. She wiped a tear from the corner of one ebony eye, and I reached out and patted her shoulder awkwardly. Truthfully, I was torn between being pissed at him for hurting her and not quite believing it. I was no expert on relationships either, but T seemed pretty into her. It didn’t seem too likely that he wouldn’t be back and that she wouldn’t take him back when he showed up.

  Not that the thought was enough to warn me away. If he was out, maybe I had a shot right now. I’d had a few months since the beginning of the semester to research the whole girl-on-girl action thing, and I thought I might be ready. Now I just had to convince her of that, and since her roommate was over at her own boyfriend’s room, tonight was the night.

  I looked around and noticed the half-eaten candy bar on the nightstand and the two empty cans of Coke on the floor. Girlfriend was going for the sugar rush. She was grumbling about him now, on and on about how basketball had always been more important to him than she was. I leaned over and broke off a piece of the chocolate bar.

  I started to put it in my mouth, but found myself looking at Janeece’s lips instead. They were so rich and dark and soft, and I wanted to kiss them more than anything in the world. More than I wanted to be safe. More than I wanted to just be friends. I popped the chocolate in my mouth, leaned over, and kissed Janeece.

  Anyone who tells you how hot a first kiss is when the other person isn’t expecting it is trying to sell you some shit you don’t need. Janeece froze and it was like kissing a blow-up doll or something. But she didn’t pull away. Her lips were soft and sweet, and I wanted so much more. That was when it occurred to me that I was being an asshole, that maybe she didn’t need her best bud hitting on her right now. I pulled away and braced myself for a slap or a yell that didn’t come.

  Instead she just looked at me, with those amazing lips parted in a slight pant. Her eyes looked wide and scared, kind of the way a horse does when it’s really freaked out. I tried to figure out what to do next. If I played it cool like nothing had just happened, she might calm down, might forget it herself. But I didn’t want to be forgotten, not now, not ever. I broke off another piece of chocolate and placed it between her lips.

  There was a minute when time slowed down and stopped while she stared at me. Then it restarted when she lunged at me and kissed me back, her lips pressed around the chocolate. It was sticky, fumbling, and unbearably sweet. I could feel myself shake as I carefully put my arms around her to pull her closer. Whatever happened next was all worth it, even if she threw me out and never talked to me again; even if I was afraid that she was just doing this to get back at Tony.

  Her chocolate-covered tongue awkwardly probed between my lips, and it was like I’d been shocked by an electrical outlet or something. My stomach did flips, and I wet my pants between my trembling thighs. No, not that way, you perv! The good kind, or so I hoped. I had never felt like this before about anyone, and I was scared shitless about what would come next. Should I touch her? Would she touch me? I tried tilting down toward the bed, not a full drop but just kind of a hint. She pulled back, breaking off the kiss, and I froze.

  Janeece gave me a long hard look. Then she reached out and started yanking my shirt out of my pants. I squawked like a duck or something and tried to keep it on, right up until she leaned over and pressed her lips on the little bit of my skin exposed above my belt. This time I groaned. She ran her tongue over my belly and I fell back on the pillows.

  She grinned and pulled my shirt up farther. She was nipping at me now, her tongue and lips working their way over me until I was gasping for air. She loosened my belt and stuck her hand down the front of my jeans at the same time as she bit my nipple through my T-shirt. I bucked upward against her hand, trying to stop its advance by grabbing at her wrist, but it was too late. She had slipped past the line of defense provided by my underwear, and her fingers were slipping around in the soaking wet space between my legs.

  I spread my legs wider, hoping that she’d know what to do, that she knew how to find the spot and the motion that would make me let go. “Shit, girl,” she murmured against my boob. “You are so wet. All that for me?” I nodded as my hips moved involuntarily, rocking against her hand even though she was nowhere near where she needed to be.

  I grabbed at her shirt with my free hand, tugging at the buttons until they pulled apart, spilling her beautiful breasts out into my completely unworthy hands. I squeezed one, flicking her nipple with my thumb, and she groaned deep in her throat, head tilted back, eyes shut. In response, she stuffed two fingers inside me and my back arched, straining against her.

  Somehow, I managed to pull one of her breasts free of her bra, kneading it like bread in my desperate grasp. She pulled her hand free of my jeans, and I whimpered like a puppy until I realized that she was going to take off her blouse and bra. I sat up and yanked mine off too. Then I reached for her, pressing her warm brown skin against mine, smooshing our boobs together while I kissed her as hard as I could. Her thigh landed between my legs and I rocked against it, letting the seam of my jeans find my clit. With my free hand, I reached behind the waistband of her skirt, stuffing my fingers down in the thick forest of hair between her legs.

  Now we were both moaning, sucking on each other’s tongues like candy, licking the last bit of chocolate from each other’s lips. I could feel her wetness now and I wanted to taste her, wanted to feel her come on my tongue. I twisted around so she was underneath me and started kissing my way down to her skirt. She raised her hips and let me slide it off, pulling her underwear off with it. I buried my face in her fur, licking at the wetness I found beneath it like I’d been doing it all my life.

  My first two fingers found their way inside her, and she thrust against my face with a yelp. I shifted my tongue to where I thought her clit would be and started licking my way around in small circles. My fingers moved inside her like they knew what to do, and Janeece rocked and moaned, her thighs stiffening around my ears. I was in heaven now, and I knew what I wanted. She tasted like nectar, some combination of cocoa butter and guava.

  I guessed I was doing this right from her reaction, or at least I hoped so. I sucked at her skin, feeling something harden slightly under the pressure, and she came, clawing at the pillows and groaning louder than I would have dared to. I would have kept going but she pulled away, dragging me up to her mouth to kiss her.

  Then her hand was back down inside my jeans, her fingers probing for and then finding my clit.
She rubbed for a minute, maybe less, and I came hard. My back arched and my eyes closed, mouth straining to stay shut over the yell I wanted to give.

  Then it was all whispered sweetness, soft skin on skin touching and feeling and all that girl stuff I’d been dreaming of since I met her. She never said she loved me, and I didn’t say it either, not sure that I should let the thought out. Maybe I didn’t. I’d never been in love before, after all. Maybe this wasn’t it.

  I was on a little cloud of pure joy—right up until Janeece’s roommate, Lisa, unlocked the door. She stood there, staring at us, mouth open in shock and horror as we rolled off the bed to grab our clothes.

  I felt a little better once I was covered up, at least until I saw Janeece’s face. She wasn’t looking at me or Lisa. Instead she was staring at her desk. I glanced over and found myself looking at a big framed photo of her and Big T, and I went cold all over.

  Janeece’s shoulders were stiff, and her face was closed off. I guessed then at what would happen next. Maybe I could have done something about it right then, but I didn’t know what. Instead I got mad. I looked up at her roommate, who had finally closed her mouth and was backing out of the doorway. That was it.

  “You already saw. Why leave now?” I snarled as I slipped my spikes back on and my courage with them.

  Janeece shuddered all over. “She didn’t see a goddamn thing,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and angry and cold. “Not a goddamn thing. Did you, Lisa?”

  Lisa looked from her to me and shook her head. Janeece looked at me finally. “Guess we’re done studying.” Her voice came from somewhere far away, and her eyes were like stone.

  My stomach dropped down a few floors, and I clutched at a chair for balance. She was kicking me out of her life, just like that. I could feel the tears coming on, but there was no way I was going to cry, not in front of them. I found what was left of my voice. “And I guess you satisfied your curiosity about that, huh?” I grabbed my shoes off the floor and shoved my way out past Lisa.

  I put the shoes on once I got to the stairwell, and then took the steps two at a time. I still didn’t cry, not until I got back to my room. Then I buried my face under my pillow so my roommate wouldn’t hear.

  Janeece didn’t show up for history again after that, but I made myself stay in the class anyway. Once I was able to do that, I dragged my miserable numb self out to meet the other local goths and queers and adoptees, and slowly and painfully, I found a community of misfits like myself. Then after a while, I wasn’t miserable at all, or numb.

  Janeece and I avoided each other at first, leaving the room whenever the other one showed up and all that dumb crap you do when stuff like this happens. I dreamt about her for a while but eventually that stopped too. After spring break we even got to being able to say hi to each other, sort of.

  I saw Janeece during finals week of our freshman year, and she was sitting with Tony in the quad. I guessed they were back together, but it didn’t bother me as much as it would have a few weeks back. They both surprised me by nodding and smiling in my general direction, and I sort of waved back, but I didn’t go over. Janeece and I might get to be friends eventually, but I wasn’t ready for it yet. I didn’t know that I ever would be, honestly.

  Besides, that same day I had a date with a hot girl from my art class, and she was waiting in the coffee shop for me. I could feel the butterflies dancing in my stomach. I thought about kisses like wine from someone who felt the way I did, and I smiled as I opened the door.

  FEMME INTO ME

  Maggie Cee

  She fucked the femme into me. I know I’m not supposed to say this, but it’s true. I’m supposed to tell you about how it’s always been there, from the beginning, and in a way it was. You can see it in the pictures, four years old in a tutu, playing with the bicycle pump; eight years old at Easter, head inclined, pink dress with a wide lace collar. Then thirteen, fourteen, skirts, long skirts, lots of layers, not sure how to be a girl without being frivolous or silly, not sure how to live in my girl body, always too hard or too soft.

  She drew it out with her hand inside me, with her weight on top of me, with her eyes on me. She loved my girl body, loved my ass in tight jeans, my legs in skirts.

  She fucked the femme into me.

  Or out of me, I’m not sure. Into implies that it wasn’t there to begin with, and out of implies that afterward, it was gone. Neither is really quite right. And we weren’t just discovering my femme, we were becoming butch and femme together, top and bottom, daddy and girl.

  She had a brilliant smile and short hair swept in a dozen directions, big belt buckles and a walk like a confident twelve-year-old boy.

  On our third date, I wore a skirt: long black jersey, almost indistinguishable from pants. I wore skirts all the time to class and parties and performances, but she was a real dyke and I was nervous that she’d think me straight or uncool. She said later she didn’t even notice until we were kissing on my dorm room bunk bed, and she slid her hands up my legs, pushing the skirt up to my hips. She said, “I love skirts,” with a sexy foolish grin, and something inside of me uncoiled, released.

  She fucked the femme into me.

  She’d never dated a girl like me before; her girlfriends had been snowboarders and hockey players like her, with strong shoulders and low centers of gravity. She’d never dated a girl with long hair, but she loved it, wanted me to wear it down, stealing my elastics and refusing to give them back unless I bartered sexual favors. I wanted it up off my face, but I learned to do it for her, learned not to care if the ends frizzed all over the place. She ran her fingers through my hair, pulled me to her, and I filled with melting water and desire.

  She fucked the femme into me.

  She was a sculptor, and she needed a body. I told her she could cast me. On a warm spring afternoon I lay on my back on a tarp and let her cover my small breasts, the bird’s wing of my collarbone, my outstretched arms. I watched her work, with small strips of plaster, dripping water; concentration on her face. Then we had to wait. She pulled my hair off my face, kissed me. I wanted to turn my face to her, but I lay still inside the cast.

  My top half was cold, immobile. I was just a head, a pair of legs, a cunt, and she was undoing my jeans, she was touching me, my legs were becoming tangled with hers and she was sliding into me and everything was bright and sharp and hot. This is it. This is it, I thought.

  See, I was eighteen and a virgin, with a much longer resume for queer activism than for sex, queer or otherwise. I’d spent years lusting after shaved-headed andro dykes, convinced that none of them would ever find me attractive.

  She fucked the femme into me.

  One night in her mother’s house, in a tiny bedroom under the eaves, she kept me on my stomach. She’d fucked me from behind before, of course, but on this night she was so slow, so teasing, and we had to be so quiet. Thoughts of submission, of giving up control, began to bubble up in my head as she moved down my body with her maddening touch.

  We ceased to exist in ordinary space, outside this room, this bed, this hour. Floating in a colorless ocean of sensation, balancing on the edge of orgasm for hours, I found myself on my back again. “Don’t kiss me back,” she said, “just let me have your mouth.” I responded as if it were an order upon which my very life depended. At the very core of my being I let go, gave her my submission, my obedience, although I wouldn’t have used those words.

  A month later we were in a hostel outside DC, less than twelve hours before I would take a bus to Yellow Spring, West Virginia to work for three months. On the train down I’d read Stephen King to her and the New York Times to myself. She slid two fingers into me under my hippie skirt as New Jersey rolled past. She said, “I bet I can get my whole hand into you.” The very thought made my cunt clench and expand.

  She was teasing me on the thin hostel sheets, going so slowly, her mouth on my breasts, in the hollow between them, her fingers light on my hips and thighs. “Please.” The thought echoed in my hea
d for long minutes before I said it. Her mouth was on my clit, and I was sucking on her fingers, swirling my tongue. “Please.” She looked up. “Please what?” For a moment I was suspended in silence, afraid that there would be no turning back, until my desire forced its way from my cunt, bubbling up to form words. “Please fuck me.”

  She moved up to take my hands, pinned them over my head, and I was gone, my body melting into the thin worn sheets as she leaned her weight into me. I was nothing, I was nerve endings and cunt and muscle and wetness and bone, I was hers.

  I arched my back and saw something lushly green and tropical rustling in the humid breeze outside the open window. I thought, I will never forget this.

  Later she looked up at me, her light blue eyes sharp, and said, “You were very good. I’ll have to be harder on you next time.” Years later, after canes and wax and knives and play parties, after the devastating end of that relationship and the beginnings and endings of many others, those words still echo in my cunt.

  I would have sworn she put her fist into me, but those big sculptor hands never fit all the way inside me. She visited me twice that summer, and in between we drew kinkiness out of each other in letters, long stories about naughty schoolgirls and perverted principals.

  On my day off, at the Lee Jackson Motor Inn (named for not one but two Confederate generals), she presented me with a black slip from a thrift store and panties made of cheap rayon, still on the plastic hanger. I changed and lay on the bed on my stomach. When she told me to look at her she was sitting in an armchair, wearing a white button-down, open to show the weight of her breasts, black and silver scissors dangling from her fingers. The cold metal on my back was more welcome than any warm caress.

  She sliced off the slip, and with it, my resistance, my insecurity. I was a long-anticipated gift, a hidden treasure. She called me filthy names and tied my hands to a hook in the closet with cotton clothesline. We were amateurs. We didn’t know any better. We ripped the hook out of the wall.