Best Bisexual Women's Erotica

by Cara Bruce

  Now, when I come in, Jim gives me a knowing look. I think I get more action at the club than he does—and from men he considers to be in his arena, not mine. Maybe sometime we’ll meet in the real world and discuss desire and identity over a couple of beers. But until then, I count on him to keep my secret. For whatever reason, he does.

  I make my way to the bar and order tequila, turning down the offer of salt and lime. I leave a five-spot for the tab, down the shot in a single swallow, and lean back against the bar. The drink settles warmly around my cunt, relaxing my hips and thighs. Oiling the machinery…. I glance around to see who’s here tonight. No one I recognize yet. That’s good. It wouldn’t do to be recognized too early.

  There are lots of pretty boys here tonight. But I don’t want just any gay boy. I’m looking for a boy who might not ever imagine looking at a girl. Until he finds himself grinding up against me, all of a sudden not so sure if I’m a boy or a girl, but hoping that maybe he’s just missing something as he rides his knee between my legs.

  I need to relax a little more, and get a better view of the club. So I move out onto the dance floor and nestle into a corner. I scan the dancers, and then catch sight of the one I’d like to catch tonight. An Asian boy, he’s got cropped black hair that’s gelled down so slick it looks wet. Or maybe that’s sweat. His short-sleeved, print button-down shirt is unbuttoned and untucked, and he wears a smooth white cotton undershirt that fits snugly over firm chest muscles. Blue jeans slouch on his hips. White socks and black Docs complete the gay boy uniform. It gets me every time.

  There’s a particular kind of flirting one has to do when trying to attract the attention of a gay boy—and one is not, strictly speaking, another gay boy. At first I just dance. I find a niche in the music I can fit my body into, a rhythm that moves me around the floor. The tequila helps at first. But pretty soon, I’ve sweated the alcohol right out, and it’s only my own desire moving my ass. Then I begin breathing harder, because the song is so good and I can’t stop to rest. My mouth is open a bit and my eyes are closed. I run my hands up along my neck to wipe off the sweat that’s running there, and I open my eyes as I do so. Maybe he’s looking at me. I don’t check. I close my eyes again and keep moving. In my imagination, he finds this intriguing and so looks at me, every once in a while, to see if I’m still sweating like that.

  Now, if a guy doesn’t have an itch for something a little different, I’m not going to get even the time of day from him. Some gay men only go for butch ones. But then there are queer boys looking for someone more along my line: a boy who could be a girl maybe, but then is a boy again. Frankly, I like those boys, too. And those girls. This boy I’ve picked out tonight appears to like those kinds of boys too, because he’s watching me and trying to figure me out. I don’t think he’s here with anyone, which is a plus: I don’t need him to have a friend lean over and point out my chromosomal makeup.

  The DJ switches from hardcore techno to something with a little more bass, a rhythm you can almost sit on. This is the music that gets people coupled, gets ’em close. I cock my head toward my boy, and find him looking at me. We begin dancing together, although we’re still several feet apart. It takes a while to move in until we’re touching. I need him to be hooked by that time. I have my hands back behind me, and my hips thrust forward. He’s definitely turned on—I can make out his arousal, even in the dim and flashing lights of the club. His eyes are half-closed and his lips are full. I’m taller than he is by several inches. I tilt my head to look down at him, moving in a little closer with every rotation of my hips, which I swipe along his thigh. One more step, and my thigh will rest between his legs. I learned this move seducing women, and yet I always manage to use it when I’m working on a boy. Habit, I guess.

  My thigh presses up against a solid hard-on. I glance at him and let a little smile creep across my face. He is not feeling a hard-on of any sort. He looks a little bewildered, but then I push up against his dick, riding him on my thigh, and his bewilderment evaporates into the shock of sensation. Maybe he has no friends here. Maybe he’s not from around here. Maybe we’re just getting into this song. The club is hot. The light is low, so low that he can imagine no one can see him. If he thought I was a boy, he might rationalize that everyone else probably does too.

  We continue dancing, and I urge us back farther into the corner. I rest a hand on the thigh between his legs as I move. My fingers press up against his dick with each rotation. His cheek brushes up against mine, lips near my ear. He gasps each time I touch him. Then he brings his hands around and rests them on my ass. We move in sync, and he moves one of his legs forward to press against me, against my cunt, until I gasp myself. I turn my hand up and cup his dick. I want to feel him inside me, and he knows it. What’s more, maybe worse, is that he wants it, too.

  He leans into me and I hear his soft, urgent voice close to my ear. “I’m not straight.”

  “I’m not either,” is all I manage to reply before his hands are on my face and he kisses me. His transgression is secured with my words. Another queer knows what this means for him.

  “I’ve never, you know…” he starts. I can see he’s flushed. “I never have….”

  “You’ll figure it out,” I say. I take his hand and lead him back behind the DJ booth. The smell of sweat and sex is overpowering here, the music just as loud as out front.

  There’s a hand against my chest as soon as I part the curtain to the back room. I make a face at Mack, trying to convey how badly I need to get by. “It’s me, Mack,” I say impatiently. “Let us through.”

  “Goddamnit, Murphy,” he says, waving us through. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

  I take note of my boy’s shocked face as we pass out of the light. Guess he didn’t know this part of the club existed. He catches a brief glimpse of bodies together before the curtain closes and we’re shrouded in darkness, the heavy bass underside of the music, and other people’s moans.

  I get him against a wall. With a hand resting on his chest, I unbuckle his belt and open his fly. He helps, pulling his very hard cock out of his pants. He gives a barely audible cry as I sink down into a squat. I have a condom out of my own pocket and am smoothing it over his dick by the time he fishes out his own.

  Ignoring his surprised look, I lick under his dick head and then swallow the tip. I move slowly, taking the length of him into my mouth, then letting his dick ease back out again. After a few moments of this, he clasps his hands around my head, and begins to fuck my mouth. I love when they’re this horny.

  My hands fit snugly around his hips, and I rest them there. My own sex swells with arousal at being taken this way. As a bonus, my clit rubs against the seam of my jeans in this position. His dick fills my mouth, and he hits the back of my throat with each thrust. I wrap my tongue around the base to make this as smooth as possible. But the boy wants to come, so I sit back on my haunches and let him take over the ride. He lets out a loud moan, and I open my throat to his sharp, impatient thrusts as he shoots.

  He pulls out of my mouth and yanks me to my feet while removing the rubber; his swiftness surprises me. Guess he’s comfortable now. He presses me up against the wall, just the way I did him, only my back is now to his front. I press my cheek to the cool concrete, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

  Using his teeth, he tears open his condom packet. I busy my hands with unfastening my jeans. I start to shift them down my hips, but he swats my hands away. He puts one hand on the back of my jeans and jerks downward a couple of times, until my ass is exposed. My hands are flat against the wall, holding me up.

  He whispers in my ear again, but with the pounding of my heart and the throb of the music, I can’t make out all his words: “…fuck you” and “…way I like to…” and so on. I shove my ass and thighs back into him, shifting in little circles, to entice him in. Looking over my shoulder, I watch as he spits into his hand, then runs his fingers along my ass, wetting the hole that’s not wet already. He jerks his cock ba
ck to rigidity right up next to my ass, then roughly smoothes the condom over it. I move my left hand down to his ass and pull him toward me. He places his free hand at the base of my spine, steadying me.

  He presses the head of his dick against my asshole. I push back slightly, meeting this intimate touch. I grab his tiny hipbone, indicating: Wait, don’t move. I ease away from his dick, then back again, fucking myself onto him. Once the head is in, I move my hand from his hip to my cunt and rub some of my own lube back onto his dick, slicking it all over the shaft. I bring my wet hand to my clit and then turn my head just a little, so that he can see my lips, not so cool anymore.

  “Go.”

  He jerks his hips swiftly, and manages to fuck his dick fully into me with a few solid strokes. I throw my head back and moan. I tell him to work it, tell him to fuck me. “Oh, shit, yeah,” I’m moaning. “Fuck me.” Whatever I have to say to get him to keep going. He grabs my waist with both hands and fucks me hard, showing no mercy. I work my fingers fast and furious on my clit, with legs spread so that I can get in good. When I feel the clench of orgasm gathering in me, I close my eyes. I turn my face back toward him, and, with some effort for coherence, I talk to him so that he knows it’s coming.

  “Keep it going, baby. Don’t stop. Oh, God, yeah—don’t…don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

  He manages to hear my pleas in spite of the rest of the noise enveloping us. His right hand is off my hip now and over my breast, fumbling for the part he recognizes. He finds a nipple and squeezes it through my shirt. Oh, God. The added sharpness of sensation throws me over the edge. I come hard, howling and grunting through clenched teeth. As I shudder through my orgasm, contracting my ass around him, my boy’s dick swells again. With a few more hard thrusts, he gives a short yelp like someone in pain, and I feel the spasms of his orgasm, too. He leans against me and drops his hands to his side, both of us panting and moaning. With his dick shoved clear up into me, we are just about as close as two people can get. I don’t even know his name.

  We stand there for a minute, recovering, him against my back and me against the wall. His cheek is against my neck, and I feel the sweet smoothness of his sticky, sweaty skin. Gently, he pulls away from me, and then pulls out. After two hard orgasms, he’s finally softening.

  I work against him, easing forward. My ass is gonna be sore on the walk home tonight. He removes the condom, knots the end, and tosses it on the floor with the rest. They must have to hose this place down with bleach every night.

  We each pull up and refasten our jeans, standing stupidly in the afterglow of anonymous orgasm. He looks to me for the etiquette. I lean in and whisper, “Thanks, baby.” I kiss him on the neck (kisses on the lips get me too turned on all over again, and I need to get out of here). I turn and head out of the back room. I don’t want him to think too much about what he just did, or get into a conversation with him about what all of this means.

  Walking out with a bit more swagger than I went in with, I give Mack a wink and pass into the club. Mack, this older bear of a man, shakes his head at me with a hard grin, and looks back to see where my companion went. I move around to the other side of the DJ booth, and wait for a minute. My boy does not follow. Snagged, probably by Mack. Figures. Mack always goes for sloppy seconds. Next time I see that boy, my guess is that he’ll only remember me for showing him the way into that particular bit of heaven. I hope he has more rubbers.

  I walk back to the bar, easing my used ass gently onto a stool. I accept the bartender’s offer of a glass of water. I’d like to dance for a few songs, but I’m exhausted and I still have to walk a ways to get home. More importantly, I’ll have to tell the tale to Laura, who will want me to demonstrate certain key parts of the evening.

  The DJ switches to another heavy bass line, which I take as my cue. Before I walk out, I scan the floor once more. There he is—my boy dancing with Mack, who must’ve found someone to cover the entrance to the backroom. I manage to catch the boy’s eye, and he grins at me, the way you might smile at a good friend. The look Mack gives me is of another caliber altogether. I smile back at them both, and head out into the night, home toward my girl.

  Extracurriculars

  Joy VanNuys

  All that drunken culinary students want to talk about is how sexy they are. As if it makes up for the backaches, the lousy pay, and the constant smell of fried food that makes strangers back away on the subway. Because, see, food is love, and love is sex, and since we can cook, someone will love us. Or at least someone will say, “Oh, you’re a chef?” and go home with us just to find out what a chef has for breakfast. Cheerios, usually. Sometimes with milk, as a garnish.

  When I step out of class into the air, the last thing I want to do is eat, though I can feel that ache in the pit of my stomach that says all I had today was one bite each of broccoli puree, carrot timbale, sweet-potato gratin. The first thing I want is a drink. The next is a cigarette. And the next is a pair of arms, rocking me, saying it’ll be OK, I was good today. A pair of lips, opening mine, tasting me, giving me an “A” for texture, moisture, saltiness. A hand full of fingers, strong from endless knife drills, opening my thighs, sinking deep into my body, branding me as someone’s.

  For the first half-hour at the bar, the kitchen still pounds in our brains—food, food, food. I tell them how butchering the bunny made tears come to my eyes, and Tony says he almost puked when he had to clean the kidneys. Frank and Juan argue over whose plating was more inspired for the paupiettes of sole, while Rose fights off boys who come over to guess her age, since her body says seventeen but her eyes say forty-two. We feed the waitress grilled ostrich with our fingers, and she brings us free drinks. These are my brothers and sisters, and I have bandaged their oyster shell gashes, snapped latex gloves over fingers boned like lamb shanks, smelled their skin sautéing to a light golden brown. Siblings or not, there’s not a single one I’d kick out of my bed.

  Around the third drink I start to notice what he looks like in real clothes, how pretty her eyes are when they’re wide with booze. Wives, boyfriends, sexual preferences, fade into the background and the air gets palpably thicker.

  “So, you’ve been around. Which is better, men or women?” Frank asks me, as he leans in to rub Rose’s shoulder blades.

  “Women,” Rose and I say together, smiling into each other’s eyes, then looking away quickly.

  “How can that be? What do you need, a cucumber or something?”

  “It’s called finesse, Frank. When you’ve got finesse, who needs cock?” Rose tells him.

  “But, girl, what can you do without a little of this?” he asks, shaking his thin hips up and down. Frank wants sex so bad, every minute of the day. In class, he dry-humps me, whispers “I want you” in my ear, then giggles like a lunatic and goes back to the flounder he was filleting. Despite the obvious distractions, the guy can cook. He shakes Tabasco and cayenne onto every plate, and it all tastes smooth and warm, never too hot. The first day of class, I clicked on that face, that ass, just like every other woman in the room. Now he’s familiar enough that I can hump him back, most days, with barely a spark.

  “To me,” I say, “it’s the difference between being filled and being opened. It all depends on what you need on that particular day.”

  “It’s like…well, women are oysters, and men are meatloaf,” Rose says. “Like men are satisfying and warm and homey—wait, that’s women. So women are meatloaf and oysters, and men are hotdogs. Like, they’re not good for you, and they’re made of all kinds of disgusting crap, but you love them anyway.”

  I stand with Frank, at Gray’s Papaya Hut. We butt heads as we fight for the single straw in our large bucket of papaya juice. Our fingers meet at the mustard pump. Three hot dogs, two gone in an instant. He puts one end of the last hot dog in his mouth, and I attack the other end, biting and chewing. Soon our lips are touching; our mouths still filled with meat and bun. We swallow and kiss. His cock is insistent, pressing against me through his jeans. H
is eyes are shocking blue, just like mine. I have promised him a friendly lay, but this is wrong, like balling-your-older-brother wrong. I run my fingertips over the leather of his jacket, trying to conjure up a fantasy, but his breath on my neck is puppy dogs and comfort. I walk him around the corner; there are still alleyways in New York City, if you know where to look. I unzip him, gently take his penis in my hand and caress it, moving up and down. It is lovely, smooth and pink, and I lick my lips, wondering how dirty I’d get if I knelt, whether he is worth a few scratches on my kneecaps. His hands move to my zipper, but I say, “No. Let me do you.” As the word do leaves my mouth, he spurts, first into my fingers, then high in an arc onto the brick wall. He shudders, holds me tight, and I wipe my hand on his jeans, pretending that I’m stroking his ass. He licks my ear, and I shudder inside, just a little. I love him, in a Christmas morning way.

  “ ‘Women are oysters’ is an anatomical cliché,” I say, and as the words come out, I know I have given myself away again, put my Columbia education up for ridicule. “I mean, just because oysters look like pussy, and feel like pussy, and taste like pussy….”

  “Jesus, that’s hot,” Sean says, from behind me.

  “I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” I say. If Frank is my brother, Sean is the hot cousin I always wanted to fuck.

  “And I didn’t know you ate pussy.”

  “Well, I….” But the moment is gone, because Rose is talking again, and when Rose talks, I am left in the dust. The girl is electric, the fastest one in the class, all ninety pounds of her flying from fridge to stove to plate. Somehow in this room, where the machismo test centers on whether you can carry thirty pounds of spitting veal bones on a 500-degree tray across a slippery floor without flinching, she has attained excellence through grace. Watch her body, ridiculous in its too-large white jacket, baggy checked pants, twirling and dancing as she sautés. Her hat cannot contain her hair, which springs into action at the slightest hint of humidity. Sometimes when I look at her, I have to bite my thumb, hard, to keep from I don’t know what.