Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  What I really wanted was to cruise lesbians. But as a gay male friend pointed out in the 1980s when I first came out: Lesbians don’t cruise each other. Then whom do they cruise? I wanted to know. Imagine a place where bunches of lesbians gathered for no other reason than to have sex—anonymous sex. We could have our own system of identifying sexual desires like the boys had with their hankies in the heyday of gay male cruising. Displays on the right for tops and on the left for bottoms carries over into lesbian sex. In fact, a lot of the boys’ codes would work for lesbians. Black for leather sex and yellow for golden showers. New colors could be added for lesbian-specific sexual acts. We’d need one for vaginal penetration and one for those who were opposed to penetration. And, of course, a color for the lesbian sexual staple: 69. We could use ribbons instead of those bulky hankies, or colored rope for those in the butchier set.

  I’m sure a committee would have to be set up to determine which colors would represent which sex acts. The committee would be charged with making sure the color selections in relation to the sex acts and any social or cultural baggage offended no one. Then they’d want to separate the cruising area by color selections so the antipenetrators didn’t have to look at the penetrators while they cruised. Maps of the approved cruising zones divided into plots by activity would be distributed. The zones closest to the bathrooms, center hub, and public transportation would be randomly assigned to the sexual activities the committee members engaged in, and a central, sex-free plot would offer peer counseling for those lesbians experiencing cruising distress. A group of volunteers would patrol to make sure penetrators stayed out of the nonpenetrating plots and that the golden showers didn’t venture into the oral sex–only zones. A statement on diversity and respect would emphasize the needs of sexual assault survivors, but exclude the needs of sexual assault survivors who participate in S/M activities. Before long the committee would make the leatherdykes wear signs announcing that they may cause flashbacks and that lesbian-identified MTFs would be picketing the area. No, this wouldn’t work—not for lesbians.

  I decided to go to a lesbian bar. There aren’t any real lesbian bars in Boston, but there are a number of ever-changing one-night-a-week lesbian clubs. The problem with lesbian bars is the music. For some reason the DJs don’t seem to keep up with the new dance music hits. No matter how hip the DJ looks, the music always sucks. But I wasn’t going to dance; I was going to find a fuck. The clubs were my only option if I was ever going to have anonymous lesbian sex. I went alone, since taking a femme support group with me would turn the covert sexual mission into a giggle feast, and taking a butch friend would mark us as a couple. Since you can never tell who is sleeping with whom, no matter who I took with me for support, my chances of finding a sex partner would be reduced. Alone was the best choice. If I failed, I could wallow without sharing the details with any of my friends, and if I succeeded I would have one hell of a story to share over brunch.

  I slipped into a short, clingy black skirt with thigh-highs and a black garter belt with purple trim. I put on a black lace bra with a long-sleeved fishnet shirt. I finished the outfit with a pair of knee-high platform black-leather boots, and a silver dagger necklace that hung just above my cleavage. A little mascara, red lipstick, and a spray of perfume and I was out the door to the club.

  The bar was crowded when I arrived at eleven-thirty. Bad dance music was blasting, spun by the very punk-looking May, a local lesbian DJ, so wrapped up in herself that she is unable to play requests even if you are the only one dancing. A handful of dykes in groups of twos and threes were on the dance floor. I scanned for potential sex partners. The spectator crowd on the perimeter of the dance floor was a mix of nondescript andro-lesbians in jeans and button-downs over T-shirts, punky Lesbian Avenger–type college students, and sports dykes in athletic tops. I even noticed one or two femmes in skirts. No one caught my eye, but I made a mental note that a few of the women-watchers were kind of cute.

  I walked through the table area on my way to the bar and spotted a really sexy blonde, punk-dyke, but she was with five other punk-dykes talking and drinking beers. Any one of those hot dykes would have done, and since there were five, there had to be at least one single girl among them. I noted the table location and continued to the bar for a drink.

  I bumped into the hottest African American butch I have ever seen. She was wearing black dress pants, a pressed white shirt, and a buttoned vest. Her hair was cut Grace Jones style, and she had a pocket watch in her vest pocket attached to a thin silver chain. Her dark skin was flawless. I smiled and mouthed, “Excuse me.” She put her hand on mine and mouthed, “No, excuse me.” Hmm. She stepped to the side to allow me to pass, and I saw a royal femme in a red dress move in close behind the butch. The femme placed her hand on the butch’s back. So much for that. I smiled at them both and made my way to the bar. It felt good to be in a room full of women.

  The bar was lined with an assortment of sitting and standing lesbians. Among them I spotted a dark-haired woman in a pair of blue jeans rolled up at the bottom to expose her biker boots. She had on a bowling shirt with cut-off sleeves and sported a chain wallet. Her dark short hair was slicked back, and she looked like a dyke version of a greaser. I watched her swig her beer from a bottle and light a cigarette as she watched the dance floor from afar. Leaning on the bar, she had one foot hooked on the bottom bar rail. She was tight and lean, though she wasn’t my usual type—a bit too much James Dean and not enough Sid Vicious—but she was alone, and James Dean beats early Cris Williamson hands down every time.

  Approach was everything, since too much chitchat would ruin the cruising feeling I was trying to create against all odds. There were other factors I had to consider: I might scare her, since lesbians don’t act this way as a rule. Or she might think I’m a straight woman trying to pick up a third since lesbians don’t look this way as a rule either. She might get outraged since sexual outrage runs close to the skin of my lesbian sisters. Even if everything went off and she agreed to do this, she might have been one of those oral-sex-only-please lesbians, or worse yet, a bottom.

  I put my faith in the fact that she had her wallet chain on the right and that maybe that tattoo on her arm of the busty Betty Page meant more than that she felt pressured to pick a cool image in the tattoo parlor. Not much to put your faith in, but more than a tale of fish and loaves written by an unknown author. I walked straight up to her and looked into her eyes. She held my gaze, a good sign since lesbians seem unable to make eye contact with each other. I leaned into her, almost touching, and put my mouth close to her ear so that she could hear me over the music.

  “Are you alone?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She slipped her arm around my waist and pulled me closer to her, perhaps to ensure we weren’t pulled apart by the motion of the crowd.

  “Don’t tell me your name. Just listen and a simple yes or no answer will be fine.”

  “OK, talk.”

  I placed my hand on her upper arm near Betty Page and felt the bulge of a well-developed muscle. “I want to have sex with you. Anonymous, rough sex in a sleazy motel room.”

  She shifted her weight against the bar, and I leaned into her. I thought I felt the bulge of a strap-on, but I was nervous so I didn’t pursue the hunch. “No names, no numbers. Are you up to it?”

  She pushed me away and looked at me from head to toe, then pulled me back against her. “Are you a dyke?”

  “If you are asking me if I fuck boys or if I am a closet case, no to both. I’m a dyke.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  I stepped away from her as she took my hand and led me out of the bar. My heart was racing, and I was wet. My head spun since I never thought I would get this far. Outside, the cooler fresh air hit us and we stopped.

  “My car’s over there,” I said.

  “Yeah, my bike’s right here.” She gestured with her chin to a black Triumph with chrome shined for a Saturday night and fire blazing on either side of the gas tank. She
really was James Dean.

  “Your bike it is.”

  She handed me a helmet and got on. I situated myself behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. She pulled onto the road, seemingly knowing where she was going. At the first stoplight she reached back and ran her hand up my leg and under my short skirt. “Tell me what you mean by rough sex.”

  She pulled the bike into traffic before I could answer.

  At the next light I said, “I want you to take me, use my body. I want to have my ‘no’ ignored.” I ran my hand down her hip into her crotch, verifying the existence of the dildo I had thought I felt in the bar. I started to think about the impli- cations of this woman alone in a dyke bar packing, but before I got far the bike stopped at another light.

  “Do you have panties on and what’s your safeword?” Again she pulled out before I could answer.

  “No and ‘ice cream,’ ” I said as she parked in front of a rundown wooden building that at one time was painted gray. A neon sign in the window flashed open in red, and a battered metal sign said motel by the sea. A number of small cottages in various states of disrepair all were in need of paint. The landscaping consisted of white rock paths and clumps of weeds. A few bushes growing unattended dotted the muddy area around the Motel by the Sea. The sea was miles from here. This was definitely sleazy.

  I waited outside while she went into the office and paid for a cabin. My skin felt cold from the open ride in the night air. Our cabin was number 3—my lucky number—and I felt like a high-school girl as we walked over to it. I was bursting with excitement but maintained a cool, calm exterior like I’d done this a million times. I followed her to the cabin, watching the slight wiggle in her walk. She had a tight little butt, and I could not wait to get my hands on it.

  That’s how I got here on my knees in front of this butch I don’t even know. I take it into my mouth. It isn’t the biggest dildo I’ve ever had, but it was the first I’ve ever had in my mouth. I take as much of it in as I think I can handle—about half. My mouth slides up and down the shaft that feels bigger than it looked. I moan an “umm” as it eases in and out. This isn’t what I had in mind. I release it from my mouth and hold it in my hand, flicking my tongue on the tip and licking the crown. Jimmy D. puts her hands on the back of my head. I look up at her, not raising my head. She intently watches my tongue work on her dildo. The look in her eyes excites me, makes me eager to please her despite the fact that her cock is made of silicone.

  I take it back into my mouth, this time relaxing my throat like the drag queens and gay boys I hung out with in college described. I am able to get more of her cock into my mouth, but not all of it. It slides in and out, and she begins to meet my strokes with her hips, her hands clamping into my hair.

  After a few moments of deep thrusting, she pulls me off her cock and tosses me next to her on the bed onto my stomach.

  “Get on your knees, Dee.” I get up on my knees and lean onto my elbows, my ass in the air.

  “No panties. You are a bad girl.” I hear her unwrapping a condom. Her hand caresses my bare ass as she gets into position with her knees behind me.

  “Such a pretty white ass.” Her hand comes down on my cheek in a quick slap, then another. Her strokes are hard and stinging.

  “I’m going to put my cock in your cunt and fuck you. Would you like that?”

  “Yes,” I say and thrust my hips back in anticipation. This is more like it. This is what I had in mind—none of that sucking on silicone; a good fucking is what I want.

  She does exactly what she promised, pushing the head of the dildo into my wet cunt and slowly thrusting forward. When the whole cock is inside me she rotates her hips so that the cock bumps against the perimeter of my cunt. She thrusts, slow and easy at first, working up my excitement and feeling out my insides. In and out the cock slides, building up speed and strength with each stroke until she is clasping my ass and pounding into me.

  It feels good. Really good. She knows how to use that dildo. My body tingles and my cunt feels excited and full. I want her to make me come. She stops buried deep inside me. For one second there is no movement; I can hear her heavy breathing then a popping as she pulls out. She grabs my thighs and flips me onto my back, positioning herself on top of me and reinserting her cock into my pussy. No hip movement as she pulls my shirt and bra up exposing my breasts but not removing my clothes. Her hands grasp my breasts hard. She rubs them, then brings them together.

  “Does it feel good to have me fuck you?”

  “Yes. I want to come. Make me come.” I squirm under her, trying to get her to start fucking me again.

  She pinches my nipples tightly, prodding a moan from me. “I won’t make you come unless I can hear how good my fucking you makes you feel.”

  She takes one nipple into her mouth, working it with her tongue, sucking on it, then biting into the flesh. I moan and push against her with my hips. She groans in response and strokes in and out with her cock.

  “No one can hear us, Dee, and anyone who can is doing the same thing we are.”

  I moan again louder and lift my legs so that she can get deeper inside me.

  She pins my arms down with her hands and holds her upper body over me. Our eyes lock for a moment as she fucks me harder. I moan and push against her arms, feel her fingers tighten on my wrists. I groan louder as she fucks me harder and faster. Her strokes are even in and out. She is slamming into my cunt. Her upper body comes down on top of me, and she grabs my shoulders for leverage. I lock my legs at the ankles around her back. She slides in and out, fucking me like a wildcat.

  I scream, “Fuck me, Jimmy! It feels so good! Make me come!”

  She slips one hand between us and strokes my already swollen clit with two fingers.

  “Harder,” I gasp.

  She strokes my clit in hard tight circles and pounds me with her dildo. I grab her upper arm with one hand and her tiny ass with the other as the shock waves of orgasm rip through me. My hips jerk forward, and my nails sink into her flesh. She stops fucking but stays inside me. Our faces are cheek to cheek, we are covered in sweat, our breathing is rapid. I roll her onto her back. I’m on top now and take a few slow strokes on her cock. She groans low.

  “Can I touch you?” I ask, looking into her eyes.

  “Yeah,” she says, reaching up and pinching my nipple.

  I dismount and undo her belt and jeans, pulling them to her ankles. She unbuckles the harness and slips it off. I slide to the floor, and she moves to the edge of the bed as she opens her legs. I spread her outer lips, noticing the soft blonde pubic hair wet with her juices and sweat. I plunge my tongue into her opening then lick straight up from her wet cunt to her clit. Her body involuntarily jerks and she moans. She is so wet. I slip my finger inside her then lightly lick her clit. I move my finger in and out, increasing the speed of my licking and my finger fucking until she groans and her hand rests on top of my head. Her cunt tastes sweet, and I want to tease her, but I don’t stop to pursue that course of action.

  She grabs my hair as she comes. Her legs twitch, her hips buck, and her other hand grabs my upper arm. I rest my head on her stomach and push my finger deep inside her as an orgasm rips through her.

  Jimmy pulls me onto the bed next to her and kicks off her boots and jeans. We lie there a few minutes before she puts her arm around me and pulls me over to her. I put my head on her shoulder and close my eyes to catch my breath. I am exhausted and content, thrilled with the results of my hunt.

  I wake up with a start. The sun shines through the blinds. The clock next to the bed says 9:00 a.m. I am angry for having allowed myself to fall asleep. I had just planned on closing my eyes for a few minutes, then calling a cab to take me back to my car at the club. I wonder if I can sneak out and call a cab from the lobby without waking her. I move slowly, disentangling my limbs from hers, but she stirs and looks at me groggily, then smiles.

  “Hi,” I say and smile back as I stand up. So much for that plan.

 
“Morning,” she says as she stretches and yawns.

  I’m not sure what to do. I am not supposed to be here. I didn’t plan this part. We stare at each other for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Do this often?” she says, smiling broadly and scratching her head.

  “No. You?”

  “No.” She gets up. She has a really hot lean body with a cute small ass and piercing blue eyes—a little white-blonde hair color would bring out those baby blues. What am I thinking? This is anonymous sex, not a relationship.

  “I’ve been going to that dyke bar for months. I had this fantasy….” She stops short, blushes a little. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t want to hear anything about me.”

  “No, go ahead.” I am interested in her fantasy and that she has been thinking about it and trying to act on it for months. “OK,” she says, walking into the bathroom and not closing the door. I hear her pee as she talks. “So I wanted to have a girl come on to me for sex—just sex.”

  I giggle, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across from the bed, and stop.

  “Last night,” she says as she emerges from the bathroom and sits on the bed, “it happened.”

  “I’d been planning this for a long time but never found the right pickup or the right way to find the right pickup.” I smile, “Until last night.” We start to get dressed.

  “Do you have other fantasies?” she asks as she buckles her belt.

  “Yeah, tons of them,” I say, feeling unusually flat as I go into the bathroom and close the door. She’s not really ruining the fantasy. Last night I knew nothing about her. It’s over, and I still know next to nothing about her. What harm is there in sharing our fantasies with each other?

  When I come out of the bathroom she is dressed and smoking a cigarette on the bed. I pause for a moment, standing with my hand on my hip, then say, “I want to be paid for sex.”

  She raises an eyebrow.