When She Was Good

by Tristan Taormino

  Last night was so good. I feel tears, a tangled mess of tears right behind my eyes, stuck there, waiting.

  Last night’s girl was someone from my support group—what a cliché, right? There we were, straight, queer, old, young, of color and not, slouched on plastic chairs in the community center meeting room. Our guilt and anger and frustration filled the room, made the windows weep with condensation. The facilitator is Noelle, a whip-thin lesbian with graying dreads and a no-nonsense attitude. She talked for fifteen minutes about the book we were all supposed to have read, Loving Someone Chronically Ill, then asked us to share our thoughts. This girl, the one I ended up fucking, had been crying the whole time. When Noelle asked who wanted to begin, this girl, this cute, chubby little redhead, her mascara coming down her cheeks and her lipstick bitten off, sobbed out her story. I’ve been in the group a long time. I know her story.

  When I met Shara, she didn’t seem sick. She was bright and energetic on our dates, practically edible in her short skirt and low-cut tops, tripping along beside me with her small hand tucked inside my elbow, looking up at me like a sparrow. She wore her hair short back then, which I don’t usually go for in a femme, but on her it was ultrafeminine, cute as hell in an Audrey Hepburn way. Dangly earrings brushed the creamy skin of her neck, and as we walked, when we danced, as we ate close together in romantic restaurants, the scent of her perfume would come and go, wafting sexily into my nostrils. She can’t wear perfume anymore—it gives her a headache. And I know now how much effort it cost her to go out with me those nights, how she needed to spend the days after our dates recovering in bed, gathering strength so she could access that bubbly, healthy place in herself and present it to me like a gift. Recently, she said, on one of those days she couldn’t make it out of bed, when she was hurting and crying, “You never would have dated me if you’d known I was sick,” and the look on my face must have betrayed me, because she ordered me out and wouldn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have, I say to myself, but I did and here we are and I love her. I love her.

  The girl finished talking and stopped crying. There was a flush on her face and a look of fierce triumph—she had said it, said that she feels guilty for being healthy, feels horrible about the anger and despair she sometimes can’t help screaming out at her lover, at the frustrations she feels when they can’t do the things they used to do so easily: go hiking, spend time at a museum or shopping, or even head out on a whim to catch a movie in the evening. Now it’s all food restrictions, medications, endless visits to the doctor. She hates it. After her confession, she was purged and we comforted her with our soothing words, yes, yes, it’s like that, it’s true, it’s really true.

  She was waiting for me outside, standing nervously next to her little yellow VW bug. I smiled at her. She was adorable. She’d fixed her makeup and her eyes were big and pleading. I have never looked for solace here in the group, so I hesitated. When I go out, I want to forget all of it, and I find girls who have never heard of fibromyalgia and who don’t know the first thing about environmental sensitivity or celiac disease. With those girls, I talk about music and television and movies, and when I fuck them, there is nothing, just bodies, and perhaps the memory, later, of the way they cried out or didn’t when they came.

  “You’re Andy, right?” She moved away from the bug and held out her hand to me. I touched it and it was warm and I knew when I shook it I wouldn’t be hurting her fingers. I took her hand and squeezed until she made a small gasp, but she didn’t pull away.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?” she asked when I finally let go. I had to get home to Shara, make sure she was settled for the night, but we made a date to meet later at the Lounge. When we got there, we never made it out of the parking lot. I put her in the cab of my pickup and was under skirt and all over her tits in an instant. She wanted it, I wanted it, we pushed into each other and the smell of her sweat and the way her pussy melted under my tongue, I couldn’t get enough. I made her come hundreds of times—can that be right? The windows were completely steamed up, the air thick and salty, and her hands on my dick felt like a blessing. Her name is Melissa. I let her touch my chest. She sat on my lap riding my dick and I came and I never come. I never come unless I’m with Shara.

  What can I tell my wife? She is standing over me again, her toes, her tender ankles. I hear the swish swish of the switch as she tests it in the air, and then she’s touching me all over with the tip. It’s been a long time since she’s felt strong enough to hit me, and I am trembling with anticipation, fumbling my hands toward my dick. She notices and switches the backs until I stop. It hurts. I can feel the tears—they are standing at attention, but nowhere near ready to fall.

  “You were out fucking a girl last night,” she says, all the time prodding and flicking me with the switch, forcing me to squirm and flinch away. Sometimes she makes little sounds of satisfaction when she gets me somewhere particularly nasty, like one of my frozen nipples.

  “You may speak.”

  “Shara, Ma’am.” I don’t know what to say. Melissa begged me to call her. I don’t call my tricks. I fuck them and I don’t come and I don’t call them and if I see them again at a bar or a coffee shop, I nod politely and turn away.

  “You fucked her,” Shara says.

  “Ma’am, I fucked her.” Shara waits. She wants details. She wants to know exactly what she’s punishing me for. Finally she says, “Her name.”

  “Melissa, Ma’am.”

  “Up.” I rise as gracefully as I can and follow her to the doorway. She nods at the rings and I scramble to pull out restraints from the bureau. When I am secured to her satisfaction, she begins.

  “M.” She traces the letter softly on my back, naked now that she’s stripped me of everything, even my boxers. She knows how I hate being completely naked in front of her.

  “You will say the alphabet,” she orders, and I start. A lash for every letter until we get to M. I can hear the joy in her as she beats me, the strength that has come to her this morning from who-knows-where. I can hear her turn-on in the healthy grunts she makes as she brings the switch down on my reddening shoulders and ass, in her sharp, excited indrawn breaths. When I have spelled out Melissa’s name, I am on fire, and the tears are closer. My nose is running again, but I know she won’t let me wipe it. My cock is hard, and when she checks between my legs with a nonchalant swipe of her hand, I can see how much that pleases her.

  She puts the switch away and gets out nipple clamps—the pink ones, the girly ones she knows I can’t stand. They have little bows and bells and they hurt my pride. She arranges them and begins to play with my chest, humiliating me with her words, calling me stacked and pretty and womanly. The tears are even closer now. I close my eyes.

  “Open,” she commands, and when I do, I see she has dropped her robe and is wearing nothing but her lacy red bra and her—oh god, I can’t bear it—her femme dick, the one shaped like a dolphin, the glittery purple one. You’re probably laughing, but that thing is an instrument of torture for me, a twisted obscenity of everything that’s right and good, and she knows it. “Open,” she says again, releasing my hands and ankles from the restraints, not even giving me time to rub sensation back into them. She has me on my hands and knees, ass in the air. She pushes inside me, hard, angry, demanding, and I am shaking and begging her not to, but she doesn’t stop.

  “You bitch,” she says over and over, slamming me, sticking that thing so deep I feel it piercing my heart. “You fucking bitch.”

  Some sound—a howl, a scream—tears out of me, shredding my throat. Still I don’t cry. She slumps against me, sweaty, furious, then pulls out. She hasn’t come, and a small part of my brain thinks that her knees have probably given out—she hasn’t even put down pillows—but the rest of me just falls to the floor and waits. She kicks me, herding me back to the bed, where she makes me lie on my back, spread-eagled.

  “Exam,” she snaps, pulling off the nipple clamps w
ith one vicious yank. I cry out but know better than to try and rub my chest. All my muscles tighten when I think about what she is going to do next. I am boiling mad for a moment—isn’t it enough that she fucked me like a girl with that abomination, that she adorned me with the clamps, isn’t that enough? But I know it’s not, that perhaps nothing is enough for what life has brought us.

  Shara puts her robe back on—white terry cloth; it looks a little like a lab coat. She quickly braids her hair into one plait, pulls on latex gloves, and assumes a professional demeanor. She moves briskly toward me and takes my hand.

  “I’ll be doing your exam today,” she says in a neutral but friendly voice. “I’m going to start with your breasts.” I cringe as she leads me through the familiar routine, possessing my chest—my tits—moving them around, squeezing the aching nipples, running her long fingernails sharply up under my arms.

  “They seem fine,” she says at last. “We do recommend you get a mammogram this year, however.” She waits until I nod and say that I will, I will get a fucking mammogram. I don’t say fucking.

  “Now I’m just going to touch your vulva lightly with my fingers,” she continues, moving down to my crotch. I tremble from the desperate need to pull my legs together, roll over, protect myself from her soft touches, but she has me pinned as much as if she’d tied me down. I am so ashamed.

  When she is done, the speculum and KY back in the drawer, I am drenched with nervous sweat and the tears hover close, close. She sighs and sits still for a moment, holding the slimy gloves in one hand. I watch her fight to regain some of the energy that was driving her earlier. She gives me a burning glance.

  “Get up. Get ready.”

  Oh yes, oh praise Jesus, she’s going to let me fuck her. I roll off the bed and hurry into the bathroom. The relief of settling my equipment where it should be—of pulling on my boxers, getting back into my muscle tee—is exquisite. She’s lying on the bed waiting for me, naked now, spread out, her fingers toying with her juicy cunt. I can see shadows of fatigue, of pain, behind her eyes, but we both ignore them. She won’t let me kiss her, but she beckons and I lower myself onto her, sink into her, my wife, my femme, my true love. Her pussy wraps around me and I burrow my face between her warm, fragrant breasts. Letting her set the rhythm, guide me, tell me how it’s going to be, I move inside her, fucking her like the precious angel she is.

  She is close—I know she’s been ready for a long time. Her breathing quickens and she scrapes her nails down my sore back, pinching, drawing blood. “Who do you belong to?” she whispers in my ear. “Whose boy are you?”

  She is coming and as she clutches and grinds against me, tears finally burst out of me.

  “Whose boy are you?” she asks again, but I am sobbing so hard I can’t speak. She knows the answer though, and she holds me, lets me pour myself into her, forgiven, welcomed home, and I come.

  THE BRIDGE

  Isa Coffey

  It’s dark. We’re driving fast. The Coronado Bay Bridge sweeps lights like diamonds overhead. I’m drunk, baby, but not on booze. I’m drunk on you. I don’t know your name, but it’s good. You’re good, and I’m falling, fast. You’re hot; your suited self just right, behind the wheel. My wheel. Take over, baby. Drive this car of mine right up to heaven. The ocean’s dark, taking off below us, all rocking waves tumbling like crazy. Shit. Throw me overboard; I’m heading there already.

  Your fist is tight between my legs; the stars are shooting licks between my earlobes and my naked ribs. You’ve got me, tied between this bridge and the fucking sea below. I’m full. The moon is too. She’s up there, competing with diamonds, competing with stars, competing with you. You’ve got one hand on the wheel of my black, coal black, cool black, shining black, ’69 VW convertible, top way down. The other’s opening from fist into hard, fat, dark fingers, figuring me out. Yeah, baby, that’s all of me, and I’m gonna slide myself right onto you so you can fill me fast. You do.

  Slick, your fingers are your dick. I’m riding, we’re riding, the bridge is flying quick. I wanna be on this bridge all night. The wind is blowing out my brain. I gotta pull my tits up to the sky and moan and groan real loud, but—fuck—down’s the only way for me. Pull my lever, baby, and there’s no way, there’s no other way, but down. You’re on it, in it, and I’m losing now. Pull this fucking car over to the side, right here, right now, on top, the very tip, of this damn bridge. Fucking pull it fast. You do.

  Suddenly balanced between now and then, midnight and dawn, I can’t remember who you are, or who I am, but I am falling, fucking, in love with you. You can do your thing to me. Right now. You do. You come down, quick, across the stick, all dark skin, dark suit, dark hair. A huge sex sweep across the lit-up sky. You’re heavy on me; you’ve got me pressed down deep into leather, deep into this fast-moving bridge, deep into you. Push me into the sea, baby. Take my breath. Take it away. Who needs it now?

  It’s tight; my knees are splayed against metal doors, and rods. My pink silk, soaked panties lost somewhere down there, to lust. And bust.

  You got some kinda crazy ass dick burning hard right down my inner thigh. Long and thick and ready to go; you’re a breathless femme’s idea of heaven.

  Your juicy lips are licking, nibbling, my nose, my lobes, my brows, my lashes. Wherever they can get. I’m biting back, real hard. You better eat me fast, baby, or I’ll devour you.

  Your bound-up chest rests thick on mine. I like the feel. I want some more. My nipples rub up hard against your bind. Pressing tits and nipples up, they’re begging, I’m begging, “Suck them off. Suck them the fuck off.” We’re too crammed up in here for that. You moan, “Baby, you wait. When we’ve got enough room, I’m gonna suck your nipples off so bad, you’re gonna die from cumming.”

  It’s tight, and you’re groaning, low, and I’m sweating; getting whatever kinda movement I can get going, going, ’cuz I’m ready to move big against your fucking fingers. You’re turning two to four, all wet and fat and kind in me. You’re going, baby, right into high gear, pushing it in with your weight, pushing it up with thrusts, suddenly moving faster than those cars speeding by, speeding right over the peak of this sky-scraping bridge. Oh yeah, baby, you’ve got speed. Run me over. Fuck me with your fingers, then your fist, while I shoot myself, and you, right up into lights, into the goddamn moon.

  And yeah, you’re curling it up, just right. You know your way around, just right. Rolling your fingers, balling me now, up into where I don’t let anyone go. It’s deep. You’re deep. I’m shooting us into that moon, baby. And I’m falling right off of this bridge.

  Falling, whispering, “You’re pushing up against my heart, baby.”

  Falling, whispering, “You’ve taken my heart, baby.”

  You murmur back, low and slow, right down into the center of my done-in heart, “I’m all yours, baby; I’m all yours.”

  I can tell you’re gonna cry, but don’t. You are one fucking butch.

  Then I’m cumming, and I’m cumming, and it’s loud, and you’re with me.

  It’s loud, and you’re with me. It’s loud, and you’re with me.

  I’m finding that I want you more. I’m fucking crying. For you.

  “Hey baby,” you say. You hold me real tight. I know you’re gonna stay right here, no matter what the fuck you need, no matter how uncomfortable you get, no matter how worried about cops, or cold, or how much you need to pee. You’re gonna stay right here, with some femme you hardly know, until I stop crying and say I’m okay; until I’m ready to get dressed and drive off this bridge, for burgers or coffee or my house or yours, because that’s what butches do. It’s why I started falling for you as soon as we got into my car and I was looking up at the lights and the stars, feeling a little too drunk on you, pulling off my blouse, and bra.

  The cop does come, right after my cum. We—we’re a we now, that’s where my cum’s led us, at least while we’re still way up high on this bridge—see him first as taillights, heading the other direction, just
as we’re peeling ourselves up off the seat, back into the land of the bridge and the cars and the rocking ocean waves far down below metal rails by our side. Fuck.

  You climb over to your seat, straighten your suit. I gather my bra, my frilly peach blouse, the remains of my panties, stretched out and soaked; then snap, button, draw on in time for the cop, who’s turned right around and is coming our way. We knew he would; they always do. They sniff us out. Our scent makes them mad, makes them feral, makes them want to scratch and claw, or shoot and skin.

  He pulls up behind us; his head’s to our ass. Headlights are blazing, blinkers are pulsing, strobe lights are like a fucking carnival night. He’s out of his cop car, strutting our way. Fucking pig. This won’t be easy. Not in this town, home to a million studs in uniform. Not with a white cop. Not with a black butch driving a shiny black convertible, owned by the white woman sitting all femme in the passenger seat. Not with two women, any colors, alone in a car on the top of the Coronado Bay Bridge, lit up by cum. Not a chance.

  My butch is sweating. Acting tough, for both of us, but scared. It’s always harder for butches. I lean over, touch her hand, “You okay?” She says, of course, “Yeah, baby, no problem.” I go ahead and ask, now that we’re here, close and scared, sitting on top of the chopping dark sea, waiting for harm that’s heading our way, “So, baby, what’s your name? Tell me quick, before that prick tries to break us with his dick.”

  “My name’s Sun, and baby, I wanna be your Sun.”

  Fucking full Moon on one side of my heart, way up here, way up high, and now Sun’s on the other. Damn, what a night. I kiss her lips. Deep down inside I’m thinking, “Yeah, baby, you can sure be my Sun. I’m fucking gonna be your Moon.”

  The cop doesn’t ask for Sun’s ID, just tells her to get out of the car. Fuck. He tells her to walk over to his flashing cop car, lean up against the warm metal door, spread her legs, arms up, wide. It’s bad. We knew it would be. He can smell dyke dick. Damn if he’s gonna let some black butch fuck his white girl. He for sure thinks he owns me, and that he’s gonna get me, after he takes Sun out. I’m watching out the window, feeling Sun’s fear, knowing she’s not going to show it, not to him, not now. Only to me, later, and only after I show her mine.