Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica

by Tristan Taormino

  Oh. Yeah. And then I pan out, and take in...her wimple. Her veil. Her entire habit. The best-looking thing I’ve seen in ages, and she’s a fucking bride of Christ! Sighing and cursing my luck, I reply, “I don’t think so, Sister.”

  She sits beside me and clasps my hand between hers, holding it almost as if it were a prayer book. Peering into my palm, she traces the lines across it, sending deliciously shuddering waves of sensation through me. “I can see that you’ve been disappointed in love. And I can see that you deserve better than you’ve received. She was not the right woman for you.”

  Stunned, I want her to continue touching my hand. But what does this nun know about it? Is she a real nun, or is this some elaborately bizarre come-on?

  Before I have time to rummage further in my closet of doubts, she takes my hand in hers and delicately and discreetly presses it against her crotch. As though burnt, I yelp and pull away. After all, twelve years of Cuban parochial schooling teaches you to look at women who have taken the veil in a certain way. And this is not that way.

  Smiling understandingly, she again takes my hand, again clasps it between her own, and again surreptitiously places it into her lap. This time, I don’t pull away.

  She looks meaningfully into my eyes and says in that scary, low voice nuns are trained to use on recalcitrant pupils: “Let us go to your place of work. We can be alone there, and I can give you the consolation that you need.”

  At this, every nerve in my body jumps and twitches and shouts “¡Ave María y Todos Los Santos!” and the very hair upon my head is about to stand at attention.

  However, being well-trained, I merely swallow hard, nod, and stare at the flooring until the next stop.

  I do not have such mundane thoughts as, “This must be a form of sacrilege,” or even “I’ll get fired if they find us in there together.” No, nothing so coherent. Only “OhmyGodOhMyGod ¡¡¡Aiaiaiai!!!”

  In this altered state, we disembark on the platform, and I half escort her, half drag myself down into the bowels of the station, my keys jangling at my waist, echoing the jingling made by the rosary beads looped around her waist. We enter into a labyrinth of doors bearing forbidding messages such as Off limits to Unauthorized Personnel, ¡Peligro! No Pasa and Danger! 750 Volts.

  I use the fat key embedded with coded spots to open a security door, and we enter what transit workers affectionately call “The Underworld.” Few people know that this area exists, and even fewer know what these portals open onto.

  It is indeed another realm, of concrete, conduit, copper connectors, blinking LEDs, clicking relays, and humming equipment. I usually enjoy hearing this cacophonous din upon arriving; I feel like a returning sovereign being greeted by hordes of adulating subjects.

  This morning, though, it’s all changed. Uncertain and becoming increasingly nervous, I turn to explain what some of the equipment does. But before I can say anything, she draws me to her with surprisingly strong arms and sticks her tongue into my open-and-about-to-speak mouth.

  I’m startled and a little taken aback. But in the next moment, I am overpowered by her skill and forcefulness and simply give myself over to her.

  Now there are long, long moments of mouths and hands and tongues and breasts all intertwined and pressing with great ardor. The room temperature shoots up by about twenty degrees, as do our body temperatures. Fiebre. I could perish happily in this now-sweltering embrace.

  The kissing seems to go on forever. Lips pressed against each other, lips apart, tongues entwined, we are like tiny snakes seeking warmth. Each moment is a revelation, a new mystery, a soul-shaking and heart-pounding act.

  Finally, after hours or minutes or decades, we move in silent concert to the work table against the wall. We are in complete accord as she lowers herself onto the formica-topped, unyielding surface. Frantically, I divest myself of the habitually hanging multiple key rings, beeper, two-way radio, flashlight, cell phone, and other work implements clipped to my crowded belt.

  Now unimpeded, my hand—of its own volition—somehow finds itself pulling up the flowing skirt of her habit. Beneath, she wears nothing but a simple garter belt to hold up her sensible black stockings.

  But this presents a more exciting vista than the most whorish lingerie imaginable. And I can smell her excitement as it begins to seep from the center of her. Suddenly ravenous, I must taste her.

  “Show me, sister,” I murmur in devout prayer. “Muéstreme.” Her hands answer by traveling to that sacred mound and then creating a little cathedral of fingertips imitating flying buttresses, pulling the outer lips aside to reveal the sacred vestibule. My gaze travels longingly down the contours of her hallowed landscape, until finally I find what she displays.

  A small moan escapes from my clenched lips as I behold the very seat of her power. The sacristy lamp is lit, blood-red, the sacred sacrament is present. This is indeed the fire hole, the birthplace of the gods, the center of the universe. This is the mystery of the Goddess incarnate, which her priestess now proffers so readily.

  A dumbstruck acolyte, I wordlessly reach my hand to lightly stroke the exquisitely soft fur surmounting the sacred grotto. Before I even realize it, my head joins my hand, and I reverently kiss the furred altar cloth. Already trembling, she releases her scapular hold and moves her hands, ready to give herself up to the ineffable pleasure. And pleasure her I shall, with every ounce of my fervent being.

  My mouth kisses lower, my lips brushing the very root where her clit grows. She cries out and opens her legs wider. “¡Aí, aí Madre de Dios, aí Jesus, aííí!” Her ejaculations begin to spout in a gushing torrent.

  I kiss down those glistening lips, the smell and feel of her igniting fires all over my now-searing flesh.

  One hand reaches under her gown for an unfettered nipple, the stab of sensation piercing her and causing her to cry aloud again. The other rests on her root chakra, my forefinger and thumb peeling the small hood back and apart for greater depth of sensation.

  My tongue has been kicking like a mare in heat, pent up in her stall. Finally, I can loose her in those running fields! The good sister’s clit engorges even more as I gallop free across that wondrous plain, full of folds and hills and crevices.

  She continuously moans now as I run down her ravine and then into that sacred well, drinking in the knowledge of life itself.

  In and out I run, time and again, my fingers working the base of her clit and my other hand kneading her breast. With each thrust of my charging tongue, I taste her river as it begins to gush, the sweetest, lightest, creamiest beurre blanc any chef has ever seen.

  “¡Aí, chíngame. ¡Chíngame! Fuck me!” she demands frantically. I lift my charging tongue to her raging clit and begin those long strides back and forth. My hand leaves off the fulsome breast and slowly, I begin to ease two fingers into her aching, arching cunt. She screams and thrashes her hips harder, feeling the force of it.

  I shudder with the power of entering that most sacred of objects, the woman’s body. I become transfixed, only lightly stirring this fantastic cauldron. About to burn up with the heat, she commands, “Cómame. Chíngame. Fuck me. Fuck me hard!”

  And of course, so commanded, I must comply. I reach into her with great force and then pull almost all the way out. And reach and pull. And reach and pull, with the heat and force of a devouring forest fire, hot winds driving at my back. I am frantically trying to outswim the fury of an approaching hurricane set to devastate this exposed coastline.

  As the pleasure intensifies at her wilding clit, she suddenly seeks to get away, to avoid the tidal wave about to crash upon the beach stretching below.

  This I cannot allow. Mercilessly, relentlessly, I run her down like a pack of Diana’s hounds who’ve caught the blood spore. Her roaring just spurs me on. I chase and chase, with ever-shortening strides.

  There, at the cliff’s very edge, I catch her, and we dive into that deepest of ocean canyons. She writhes and moans and sprays my face with that most vivifying of juic
es, thrashing like a barracuda who has been hauled to shore following a fierce struggle. Gasping and groaning, she holds my wrist so that I no longer thrust down her pulsing tunnel.

  From a great distance, I hear her begin to whisper endearments, entreaties, enspherements. But my tongue is not ready to relinquish her freedom, and I keep licking until the saddle is hard again and ready for more mounting.

  “Estás matándome!” she admonishes. But the way she lays her head back down and spreads her legs a little farther betrays her collusion in this terrible crime. Duty bound, I will not cease my efforts until she finally pushes me away. Because this is what we were both born for. This is the Great Mystery. This is life itself.

  My engrossed reverie is shattered when the two-way radio begins squawking my call sign: “801. 801! Report in, 801.” Shaking with the incredible effort first to come to the surface, and then to form a coherent sentence, I lift my head and hand up and grab the braying black box.

  It’s an annoying parasite that is usually welded to my resentful hip. It forces responsiveness from me, seemingly, whenever I begin to eat lunch, look at the women walking through the station, or sit down on the toilet seat.

  So naturally, the semi-indecipherable but definitely not ignorable voice of Central Control must intrude NOW. ¡Jesus!

  “This is 801. I’m 10-8 at Coconut Grove.”

  “Give us a call at 3406.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Damn. Damndamndamn. The spell is surely broken.

  Oh no! She’s pulled her dress down and is getting off the table. Before I can preempt this horror, she lays a finger to my lips and says, “I’ll see you on the train again sometime, querida.”

  What? Wait! We’re not finished! I...

  “Sometime,” she calls calmly over her shoulder as she exits the room, setting off the intrusion alarm. Shit! I have to reset this piece of crap and explain to Central why I set it off, as well as pick up my work orders for the day. Not to mention figuring out how I can possibly survive the next eight hours down here, her smell and taste still with me and my own fires unabated.

  ¡Aií! Life can be so oddly unpredictable in the tropics.

  Dybbuk

  Robin Podolsky

  The first thing I knew was darkness.

  I mean, I knew it was darkness and I was in it.

  I had been elsewhere for a long time.

  I could see perfectly,

  her skin shining under the moon like stone.

  It was her smell that drew me to her.

  First I was seeing, then there was perfume that made me

  hungry, so I had a mouth and a swollen tongue.

  I was still the barest trace of flesh, rocking on the night breeze

  over her bed. Then she moved; a shudder, a wriggle.

  My body grew back, wanting.

  When I remembered I had nipples they were already hard and

  my cunt was hard on top and drooling below.

  Just under the ceiling, I crouched in darkness. I grew heavy

  with flesh and hunger for flesh until I began to descend, arms

  and fingers curved to enfold, my legs open like a frog.

  Nipples touched nipples and I felt her bush crackle as I crushed

  it with mine.

  I licked sweat on her temple and she sighed wet into my neck,

  drinking my skin. She whispered my name and I knew who I

  was.

  Na’amah.

  The forest night breathed in her hair.

  Creatures with shining eyes waited for me there and I dove in to meet them.

  Her hands finished me, making my form as they found power in touching. I was her discovery, her creation, such delight she took in the long road of my torso, such a leisurely journey of lips and tongue and teeth.

  She gave me her kiss of fire, I whispered secret names into her mouths, with flaming tongues we wrote magic words between each other’s thighs.

  And now, they say she has a dybbuk, is possessed. Now she will never marry. She will never cut her hair. Every night she calls me, summons me with all the power of my forbidden name,

  Na’amah,

  and I ride to her on the wind. No window can shut me out. She eats no food.

  Her body will die.

  If she were someone else, perhaps she would climb out the window and meet me in the wood. Perhaps she would wear men’s clothing, a peddler free and easy, roaming from village to town, making young girls dream and married women leave their own windows unlocked. Some of the girls I visit end up that way. Not her. A blessing in her father’s house, her mother’s pride and support. Such a nice girl. The best she can do is starve and stare, her eyes larger every day, gleaming black fire against skin white as the moon.

  The rabbi litters the room with charms. He rocks for hours, bellowing prayers. He calls and calls for me. He wants to wrestle, but I’m not interested.

  Every night she shudders pale against my skin. We have each other to eat and drink, she doesn’t want her mother’s cooking anymore.

  She whispers my name. Na’amah.

  I whisper stories of how it will be. We will be perfume on the wind, shadows under moonlight and no window will keep us out.

  Virgin’s Gift

  Robin Bernstein

  Anat skipped school again today. I know she’s waiting for me on the roof of the movie theatre, chalking Hebrew obscenities in the tar and watching the traffic below. I know she’s waiting for me.

  “Hey, Baby, what took you so long?”

  That’s what she’ll ask, if I meet her on the roof. I’ll pull myself over the rail, rust from the fire escape streaking my hands and face. Before I can even wipe the dirt away, though, Anat will whip my long hair out of my face and kiss my lips. Kiss them deep. And then demand more.

  But I’m not going to the roof, at least not yet. I’m going to Rosenbloom’s Jewish Books and Religious Articles. To buy Anat a present.

  My sneakers beat a rhythm on the sidewalk as questions pound through my head. Who is this girl who thrust herself into my life only a few weeks ago? Why should I buy her a present, when she bosses me around, makes fun of my lack of experience, and never answers a direct question? My answers also resound in rhythm: I’ll buy her a present to make her miss Israel less, so she’ll be less moody—and less likely to take it out on me. I’ll buy her a present to apologize for not sleeping with her yet. To bribe her to wait for me. To make her want me even more.

  A bell jingles when I open the door to Rosenbloom’s. The Hasid at the counter looks up at me, then immediately looks away. For a moment I feel rude in my jeans and grungy turtleneck—hardly yeshiva-girl regulation. There’s something in the Bible about women not wearing pants, like you’re not supposed to confuse the genders or something. The Hasid’s contempt is almost palpable. Screw you, I think, I’m just as Jewish as you are. I’ve got as much right to be here. Well, maybe I don’t. It is his store.

  I want to buy Anat something cute, like a Hebrew picture book or stencil set or refrigerator magnet or something. But I get distracted by the silver in the locked glass cases: heavy, shining candlesticks; ornate little boxes with hinged lids; menorahs whose graceful, twisting tines resemble flame itself, frozen mid-flicker. The weight of each piece crushes ridges into the velvet shelves. A Hasidic woman is behind me, digging through a trough of yarmulkes. She is in her thirties, wearing a soft, sacklike hat, calf-length blue skirt, and white tights like every other Hasidic woman I’ve ever seen. She picks up a yarmulke, inspects it from all sides, tugs the seams, peers, sneers, and tosses it back. She already has six or seven in her fist: one sedate black disk and a bunch of bright pre-school size yarmulkes with logos from football teams and Sesame Street. I wonder how many sons she has. I wonder who her husband is.

  Suddenly, my mouth and eyes are wet. It must be so easy, I think. Longing splashes all over me, sudden as thunder and rain. To be this Hasidic woman, to have my life set: husband, sons, buying yarmulkes on a Wednesday aftern
oon. So easy. So clear. She doesn’t have to ghost her way through high school, laboring each day to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She’s not so lonely that she’ll settle for anyone—even a sullen semi-delinquent who thinks all Americans are idiots—just to have someone to talk to. She would never be on her knees in gratitude, buying a girl a present just so she’ll stick around. And when this Hasidic woman has sex—which she does, and I don’t—she does it in a clean bed with the door closed. Not on a dirty roof with the sun beating down.

  Oh, you’re idealizing, I chide myself. She probably works twenty hours a day, boiling chickens and wiping baby butts. And what if she’s lesbian, too? Imagine how awful that would be, to have to marry some guy or lose your whole community.

  But maybe she’s never even heard of lesbians. Then, maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad. Would I be able to imagine women together, if I’d never heard the words? Maybe I’d think I was just shy or asexual. Maybe it would even be sort of okay.

  I imagine myself, Hasidic, in bed, waiting for my husband. He pulls back the covers and climbs in—

  No. The fantasy doesn’t work; I’m cold as the silver behind the glass. I can’t have this life even in dreams.

  The Hasidic woman has noticed my stare; she’s sizing me up me out of the corner of her eye. I move to the racks of tallises: dazzling white linen with silk embroidery, dark stripes and soft fringes. They have so much.

  What if she is straight? I look at the Hasidic woman again. Imagine how wonderful that would be, to share desire with one person, over and over. I guess some Hasidic women don’t love their husbands. But imagine being one of the ones who does. Imagine wanting your husband, never worrying about whether it was right or normal or if you were really sure or if you might change your mind. Never worrying about what anyone might think; knowing that everyone—family, friends, neighbors, rabbi, God Himself—was urging every kiss, every moan, every tremor in your hips. Imagine wanting your husband, wanting him, only him. And having him, over and over, year after year. Limitless.