Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  She puts her face beside mine, pets my sides, and speaks low and exactingly.

  “I imagine you are many things to many lovers, like a snake who sheds its skin for each new season. Tell me, have you ever been a sodomite?” She reaches for my sex, but slides her fingertips down through the wetness to my asshole. I groan, and turn under her so I’m face down. She keeps stroking the sensitive pucker delicately until I’m rubbing against the bed in a delicious torment.

  “Well, what do you answer? Have you seduced young boys, fresh-faced and tender as women, and penetrated them? Have you given in to one of my noblemen who look at you so darkly?”

  Now, one of her hands holds my cheeks apart as her fingers push into me, slick with cunt-juices. I’m breathless. “I’ve fucked boys, but this sin I have never tasted.”

  “You’re my boy tonight, and I will have you.”

  My legs are spread around her knees. Her cock feels immense as it opens my ass, and I try to shift away from it. She holds me down with kisses on the back of my neck. I burn, and then, as she moves minutely, I ignite, my skin and muscles finding the pleasure. I bend my head and arch into her, and she growls and grabs a handful of curls, riding deeper along the stretched and secret flesh with each clinging thrust. Finally, the tip stabs some interior joint nucleus of my clit and my spine, and my cunt clenches on the bliss as if I were filled everywhere. The Queen’s cock is inside me.

  Much later, Elizabeth and I lie together under the coverlet in a tangle of limbs. “I want to have your portrait painted,” she says, scratching along my collarbone with her fingernails. “I want you painted in a doublet the color of blood, looking like a handsome mystery, with the fold of a dark cloak obscuring your nether parts. I want to hang you in my gallery.”

  I roll onto her, letting her feel my weight, and answer her. “I want to take you in your gallery, your Majesty. I want to fuck you naked on the cold marble, while we watch ourselves from the walls, and smile.”

  Luck of the Irish

  Kyle Walker

  “Thanks for coming,” Alan told Mari. “I have to go, but I’m not looking forward to it, and you’re better at saying something nice than I am.”

  He picked up their tickets at the box office of the Off- Broadway theater, and an usher guided them to excellent seats. When Mari commented on that, Alan shook his head: “Good seats to see a bad show.” His boyfriend was doing the costumes for Star of Delight.

  Mari thumbed through her playbill and spotted a name that gave her heart an odd twist.

  “Brigid Flanagan? Is that the one who was on TV…?”

  “Some old show before I was born,” Alan said. “Back in the ’60s or something….”

  “Cowboys and Girls,” Mari finished. “I loved that show. Well, I loved Brigid Flanagan….”

  “I think I saw it on Nick at Nite, ” Alan said.

  Mari had seen Brigid Flanagan in her dreams. From the time she was eight until she was twelve, her Friday nights were reserved for Cowboys and Girls, a drama set in post–Civil War Wyoming, following the stories of a strong, beautiful matriarch (played by ’40s movie star Molly Webster), her brood of daughters, and the cowboys on her ranch. Brigid Flanagan played Maeve, the Irish cousin.

  Each week, Mari waited for Cousin Maeve’s scenes, fascinated with the way her auburn ringlets spilled down her back, how she clung to the horse and rode like the wind for Doc when someone broke his leg, or got bit by a snake.

  In hindsight, Mari realized it wasn’t a very good show, though Molly Webster had brought a level of dignity to her part, and Mari’s fascination with Brigid Flanagan had taken her on quite a journey. She began to write stories about herself and Cousin Maeve in a secret notebook, adventures in which they got lost in the mountains together, or left the ranch and went to San Francisco (even at that age, Mari knew she was destined for the big city).

  She rehearsed the stories each night as she fell asleep, and woke one morning from a dream in which Brigid Flanagan had smiled at her, and they had begun to kiss. In the dream they’d kissed until Mari felt herself beginning to throb. She woke from the dream and reached down to touch herself, and found her fingers were wet.

  At her all-girl school, the general opinion was that boys could masturbate, but not girls (if anyone had discovered otherwise by the sixth grade, they hadn’t shared it). Mari wondered if a girl could turn into a boy. She wished she could be one, so she could kiss Brigid Flanagan. The dream disturbed her for weeks, and she watched the show with a strange feeling of guilt.

  She became fascinated with all things Irish, not a bad thing at a Catholic school. Her knowledge of saints, poets, and playwrights drew her toward Irish Studies in college, and her senior thesis on Boadicea, the warrior queen, got her high honors and a fellowship from a Hibernian society to graduate school. Nearly two decades into her life as an editor, she wondered what career she might have had if she’d sublimated a crush on one of the Brady girls instead.

  The lights dimmed and the play began. As soon as Brigid Flanagan walked onstage, Mari’s critical faculties ceased to operate. She was twelve again, sitting too close to the TV, enthralled by the Irish beauty. Brigid’s voice was lower than it had been in 1968, but still clear and lilting; she appeared to have aged gracefully. Her still-excellent figure was shown off by the beautiful costumes.

  She played an Irish mother whose adult daughter was visiting from the United States. The mother wanted the daughter to move back, an old beau of the daughter’s tried to start things up again, and there were other events about as predictable and interesting as a fairly good television movie.

  According to Alan, the playwright wrote for a popular TV series. Mari was touched by her heartfelt but misplaced desire to write for the stage. She thought up some nice things to say if they went backstage, which she desperately hoped they would.

  In the second act, Brigid had one excellent scene that almost transcended the work. Mari was glad to find out that her first love had been someone with real talent; she’d briefly worried that the flesh-and-blood actress might not measure up to the memories. Mari found herself swamped again by all the powerful feelings that had swept over her each week.

  She leapt to her feet and applauded at the curtain call as Brigid bowed. “Do you want to go back?” Alan asked.

  “It would be polite,” Mari said.

  Backstage, Mari told Alan’s boyfriend his costumes were fabulous, and met the playwright; she commented favorably on the production, and how much she’d liked Brigid’s performance. Zoey put her hand to her heart: “She’s my guardian angel! I met her a couple years ago when she did a guest spot on our show. I’d always loved her…you remember, from Cowboys and Girls….” Mari gave the playwright a sharp look. “I was obsessed with that show; it turned me into a writer, I swear! When I finally met her, she was just as gracious as she could be; she encouraged me to write this play.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Mari that Brigid might have had that effect on anyone else. Perhaps they were all picking up on a little something?

  “She and her husband were so good to me,” Zoey went on, derailing that train of thought. “They were devoted to each other until he died. When I got married, I told my husband I wanted us to be like them.”

  Finally, Brigid emerged from her dressing room, tying the ribbons of a broad-brimmed hat.

  “Would anyone like to grab a bite?” Zoey asked. “Brigid?” She took the actress’s hand and led her over. “This is Mari Myers, an editor at a publishing house here. She saw the play and said very nice things about you.”

  “An editor, is it?” Brigid replied, putting her hand on Mari’s arm. “Well then, you must publish something this girl writes. She’s very talented, my Zoey.”

  Mari had had the experience of meeting people she’d admired, and had learned how not to frighten them. Still, it took all her discipline not to leap on Brigid, sobbing I love you I love you.

  “I was just telling Zoey how much I liked your work in that last scene,
Ms. Flanagan,” she said. “I was one of your many fans from Cowboys and Girls, and it was gratifying to see you again.”

  “Please, call me Brigid,” the actress said with an inviting smile. “I always tried to do my best, even though the show wasn’t a critical favorite.”

  “I can’t imagine you doing any less,” Mari replied.

  “That’s grand to hear at this stage of the game,” Brigid said.

  “Have you ever thought of writing a memoir?” Mari asked, happy she had a profession that made it appropriate to ask such questions.

  “I’ll take my secrets to the grave!” Brigid swore with a wink.

  “Well, I’ve got to run,” Zoey said. “Do you want to come to dinner? Or can I drop you?”

  “No, dear, thanks for the offer,” Brigid demurred. “And you’re on the West Side and I’m on the East….”

  “I’m on the East Side, too,” Mari said. Alan had already disappeared with his costume designer and she’d have to find her own way home. “Perhaps we can share a cab?”

  It was a glorious spring day, and when they emerged from the theater, Brigid asked Mari if she minded walking. “It’s hard to find people in Los Angeles who’ve heard of such a thing. They’ll run for miles on treadmills, but here, you can actually get from place to place on your own two feet.”

  “Walking is one of my favorite things about New York,” Mari told her. “I would miss it if I lived anywhere else.”

  “Oh, California has its compensations,” said Brigid. “Beautiful weather, beautiful scenery, beautiful boys and girls.” She put her arm through Mari’s in the European manner. Mari saw herself bending Brigid back into a passionate kiss, and focused on saying something that wasn’t: you! me! here! now!

  “I lived in New York when I first came over,” Brigid continued. “So exciting: you’d do stage and television and radio all in the same week. But I went out to Hollywood for a screen test, and never came back.”

  “It’s good to have you here now,” Mari told her. “Especially in the spring, when everything is coming back to life.”

  “Like me,” Brigid said. “I needed to get away for a bit…I haven’t been myself since Max died…my husband. I can’t believe it was almost three years ago. Heart attack.”

  “I lost my…soul mate about then,” Mari told her. “We learn to live with it, but I don’t know that we ever get over it.” Presumably Brigid knew plenty of gay people, but Mari wasn’t sure how out she could be to a woman of her age and background.

  “We were lucky to have loved, and been loved, weren’t we?” Brigid said.

  Mari invited Brigid up for a cup of tea, and Brigid seemed happy to accept.

  “I don’t really know anyone here anymore,” she said as they entered Mari’s building. “We had a wide circle of friends, and traveled quite a bit, but my husband was my favorite companion. I still know a lot of people in the business,” she added. “But they seem to speak a different language. And they don’t talk about anything but work.”

  “Oh, I’ve got opinions on everything,” Mari said lightly as they ascended. “Some are even based on fact. I’d be happy to discuss how I think the world should be run.”

  “Careful,” Brigid said. “That’s how people got blacklisted.”

  “Now that was before your time…” Mari began.

  “Bless you, dear,” Brigid replied with a brilliant smile. “I was a slip of a girl when I got to Hollywood in 1959, but they still talked about the blacklist, and the careers it ruined; Hollywood was, and is, very much a place where you keep your mouth shut, and the smart ones keep their business as private as possible.”

  Mari’s apartment was bathed in the late afternoon light, and Brigid went to the window that faced the river.

  “Oh, what a grand view!” she said.

  “It’s even better from the bedroom,” Mari replied, delivering another mental kick to herself.

  “May I?” Brigid asked.

  As long as you let me join you….

  “Of course,” Mari replied out loud. “I’ll just start the tea….”

  She busied herself boiling the water and selected some teas, then felt her face to make sure she wasn’t still blushing. She found Brigid in the living room inspecting her mementos.

  “Is this your departed soul mate?” she asked, gently picking up Mari and her partner Darby’s reception photo.

  “Yes. What kind of tea would you like?”

  “What do you have?” Brigid asked, replacing the photo.

  Lesbian tea! Crushed out, woman-loving tea that I would like to lick from your lips.

  “Umm…green tea, Earl Grey, Constant Comment…. What do you like?” Mari held out the packets.

  “What do you like?” Brigid asked, moving closer.

  Mari selected the Constant Comment and managed, “How’s this?”

  “I like it very much,” Brigid replied, taking the bag. She inhaled deeply. “The aroma brings back memories of a love affair I once had.”

  “I guess that’s why they call it sense memory,” Mari said. “There goes the kettle. I’ll get the teapot.”

  “Take a good deep breath!” Brigid declared, thrusting the bag under Mari’s nose. Mari knew what moment the smell of Constant Comment would take her to from now on.

  They shared some shortbread with the tea, licking their lips for the last sweet crumbs.

  “You missed one,” Brigid said. “Here….” She took the bit of cookie from Mari’s lip on her fingertip. Her tongue darted out and licked it. “What an intimate ritual. Max and I made it a point to have tea at least once a week.”

  “Darby wasn’t much for tea, but she always had a cup of coffee with me,” Mari said. “I miss that, as much as the other intimacy. It’s so nice when your lover is also your good friend.”

  “Max was my husband, and my good friend, but he wasn’t my lover,” Brigid said. “We did love each other, though, make no mistake about that.”

  Mari said nothing. She’d long ago learned that not asking questions was one of the best ways to keep someone talking. “Max and I were very well matched,” Brigid recalled. “Molly Webster introduced us. She taught me the rules of Hollywood.”

  Mari had seen some of Molly Webster’s movies; she played gun molls and dames of the sort who would take a bullet for their man. She’d married at least once, though some books mentioned her as one of the “Sewing Circle” of glamorous Hollywood lesbians.

  “Now there was a fine actress,” Mari offered. “You couldn’t take your eyes off her when she was on the screen.”

  “Or in person,” Brigid said. “That one knew how to get a girl’s attention. Invite you to lunch in her dressing room, offer to coach you in a difficult scene.”

  “Would you care for an after-tea cocktail?” Mari offered. “How is your martini, my dear?”

  “Not good,” Mari confessed. “I do a better gin and tonic.”

  “Well then, g-and-t it shall be!” Brigid giggled. “ I don’t often imbibe anymore,” she confided. “Bad for the skin and my tongue gets loose. I never know what I’ll say, or where I’ll put my hands!” Mari poured a hefty slug of gin into a glass, and sprinkled in a drop of tonic, floating a lime on top.

  They clinked their glasses, and Brigid took a long sip.

  “Here’s to old fans and new friends. And what’s yet to come!”

  “Hear, hear,” Mari agreed. Brigid grew serious. Mari allowed herself to see the age that Brigid was fighting tooth and nail. There were crow’s-feet by her eyes, and her jawline was not as firm as it had been. Her lip line had shrunk, and she’d filled it in, and tried to conceal the lines around her mouth. Still, her skin was fair and unblemished, and not pulled taut. Her auburn hair, several shades darker than Mari’s, was full and soft and fell around still-classic cheekbones. Mari thought she was more beautiful than ever.

  “There was a time, you know, when one’s career could be destroyed at the whisper of a scandal. The studio could make sure you never worked a
gain.”

  “It’s not like that anymore, is it?” Mari asked.

  “Hollywood is still the biggest closet of them all,” Brigid told her. “I suppose you find that appalling.”

  “Who am I to judge?” Mari said. “Am I here to hurt people? Or to let them be, and maybe try and make things better?”

  “Spoken like a true Catholic schoolgirl!” Brigid said.

  “Bless the dear sisters…” Mari said. “Some were so lovely.”

  “Isn’t that what gets us into trouble?” Brigid said, almost to herself. “A kind eye, a soft hand…a sweet voice and a spiritual nature…the next thing you know, you’re sent home from school and told not to come back.”

  “You went far away,” Mari observed.

  “What else was there for it? To be a town pariah in the bog-end of Ireland? Marry some lout to prove I could drop babies like a normal girl?” Brigid took another sip of her drink. “I went to London…that’s where the fallen women were supposed to go!”

  “How did you survive?” Mari asked.

  “Quite easily, really!” Brigid said with a grin. “I was a pretty thing!”

  “Beautiful, you mean,” Mari said.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. A pretty girl can go far, and if she keeps her wits about her, she needn’t end up being taken advantage of. Dear, would you freshen my drink?” Mari did, noting that Brigid had a way of making her requests seem like she was bestowing a favor.

  “I got work as a model for art classes,” she said. “The pay was good, and the boys and girls wanted to take me out. The boys spent pots of money trying to get me into bed, the girls were more gentle and seductive. And once you meet artists, you start meeting writers and actors and all sorts of interesting types….”