Best of Best Lesbian Erotica 2

by Tristan Taormino

  But what can I do? I am a fool in love, or even in lust, as I suspected it might boil down to. I called Natalia after work the next day. She’d be happy to meet me at Taco Villa for “tapas, or maybe something more?” She breathed into the phone, “I just love eating South-of-the-Border, don’t you?”

  It took three-quarters of an hour to get the crud out from under my nails. She was waiting at the bar when I finally got there, nursing the last inch of a Corona and bobbing her head to Hank, Jr., on the jukebox.

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Natalia,” I finally managed as she bounced up to give me a hug, “you got a haircut.”

  “Yes, this afternoon,” she whirled and patted her hardly-longer- than-a-crewcut locks. “Do you like it?”

  “Ah, sure,” I began faintly, until the look on her face told me I was about to make a horrible mistake, “yes, I love it. It’s terrific. Absolutely gorgeous.”

  She took my arm as the waitress led us to a booth in the back. In the dark. My unruly imagination slipped the surly bonds of Earth, and I wondered what I would do if she slid down the padded vinyl bench and disappeared beneath the table.

  She ordered a Corona for both of us. “Upsy-daisy,” I murmured, remembering.

  “I beg your pardon?” She cocked her head, smiling the kind of smile no virgin had a right to.

  Our drinks arrived at something approaching the speed of light.

  “Na’zdorovye!” She tipped her bottle toward me. I sprayed beer across the table.

  She graciously helped me mop up the mess and even signaled the waitress for more napkins. Already as mortified as I could be, I forged ahead, boldly going where I fervently hoped no man had gone before.

  “Natalia,” I began, “did you by any chance stop by my house yesterday? While I was, uh…” I paused, feeling my ears turning hot, “…working on the car?”

  “Did I ever tell you, darling,” she reached for my hand and gazed deeply, earnestly, into my eyes, only the faintest hint of amusement playing on her lips, “that my father was a member of the KGB?”

  “No,” I answered weakly, “I didn’t know.”

  “He was assigned to Martina Navratilova. When she defected, so did he. What else could he do?”

  “Really.” Her fingers were stroking my palm.

  “So, you see,” she smiled, “secrets run in my family.” Her toe nudged my ankle. My heart threatened to achieve escape velocity.

  Appearing out of nowhere, the waitress hovered over our table, her pad at the ready.

  “We’ll have the number five combo, and the number three,” Natalia told her, “and the number six as well, hmm?” She looked at me for confirmation. I licked my lips. She took that as a yes. “Unless you’d rather….” She squeezed my hand and cut a look at the exit.

  “Could we get that order,” I asked the waitress, “to go?” “Pre-par-ing for takeout…” she enunciated as she wrote.

  Time is relative; you don’t need a Grand Unified Theory to know that. Several billion years later, we loaded our steaming cartons of enchiladas and chimichangas into the Baby’s backseat, where they were swiftly forgotten in our warp speed race across the galaxy to my bedroom. We left a trail of clothing through the house behind us, planetary detritus forming an asteroid field in our wake. I never found out for sure if it was Natalia’s mouth I rendezvoused with in the lightless depths of my garage, and I don’t know if

  pistoning fingers and slick thighs actually convert matter into energy. Minutes and seconds can’t measure the rate of propulsion of a body rocketing toward orgasm. But this one thing is immutable physical law: when the Big Bang happens, time stops.

  Einstein didn’t know the half of it.

  Loved It and Set It Free

  Lisa Archer

  In 1985, my first dildo drifted out into the Baltimore Harbor on a broken bookshelf. I’d owned this dong for less than a day, but we’d been through a lot together. The night before, I’d eased it inside me, while my high school best friend lay next to me faking sleep. Most people keep their first dildos until they rot. But I was different. I loved mine and set it free.

  “The Boss” was a single piece of beige rubber shaped like a billy club or toy sword—with a handle, a cross-guard, and a ten-inch dong in place of a blade. The label on the package said “anatomically correct,” but even then I knew ten inches was a little on the long side.

  I first laid eyes on The Boss when my friend Kim took me to a porn shop on East Baltimore Street. Kim was a born comic with gawky limbs and a wide, pouty mouth. The summer before our senior year, she carried bottles of Sun-In and hydrogen peroxide wherever she went. When we weren’t swimming, she poured them over her head and lay in the sun.

  By the time we went back to our all-girls school that fall, Kim’s hair hung in clumps like bleached snakes. People said she dyed her hair orange to match school colors—orange and green. So she dyed it green for one of the field hockey games. This was in the mid-’80s, before Grunge Rock.

  Around that time, Kim and I were playing “I Never”—one of the few games you can win through sheer inexperience and naïveté. In “I Never,” players take turns confessing things they’ve never done. If the other player has done something you haven’t, she owes you a penny. I won two cents easily, because I’d never bleached my hair or dyed it green.

  It took me a bit longer to come up with my third confession. Finally I said, “I’ve never really gotten a good look at another person’s genitals.”

  This was true: Although I’d made out with both boys and girls, we rarely took off our clothes. Instead, we groped each other in dark, semipublic places—fumbling with buttons, bras, belt buckles, and zippers, and glancing over our shoulders every few seconds, expecting our parents to catch us in the act. I’d even lost my virginity in the classic sense on the floor of a toolshed. In short, I’d had plenty of action, but little chance to look at naked bodies or genitalia. I had rarely ever seen boys naked, except when our neighbor little Billy ran across our backyard with his babysitter chasing him. I saw girls’ bodies in locker rooms, but felt much too self-conscious to stare.

  I expected Kim to question my confession, but she just nodded and tossed me another penny.

  “You should come over and watch porn movies the next time my parents go away. That’ll give you plenty of chances to check out other people’s genitals.”

  Unlike my parents—the last in town to buy a microwave or any new appliance—Kim’s family owned a VCR. When her mom and dad went out of town, Kim rented porn. We planned our porn adventure months in advance and waited for her folks’ next vacation.

  Kim rented porn videos from a seedy shop on “the Block.” The Block—the 400 block of East Baltimore Street—is Baltimore’s red-light district, where the locals go to see naked girls dancing and buy porn. Growing up in the sub-suburban sprawl of Baltimore County, I’d never been to the Block, so we drove me past it one night, when Kim borrowed her mom’s Honda Civic.

  “That’s the Block.” Kim pointed out the window. “Look now, or you’ll miss it.”

  I pressed my face against the passenger window. Neon lights danced against the starless sky; then darkness swallowed the neon, as we dove back into the night.

  “Was that it?”

  “Yeah. It’s only one block. I’ll go around again.”

  The second time, she drove more slowly, so I could read the neon signs: Golden Nugget Lounge, the Crystal Pussycat, Gresser’s Gayety Liquors, Savetta’s Psychic Readings, Crazy John’s, and the Plaza Saloon. Glamorous names—at least for kids growing up in Baltimore.

  We didn’t rent videos that night. We just drove by, and Kim pointed out Sylvester’s Videos, the store where she rented porn.

  “They have booths in the back where you can watch videos, but you don’t want to go in there. The walls are sticky and gross. Let’s just wait until my parents go away, and we’ll rent videos to take home.”

  Finally Kim’s parents scheduled an overnight campi
ng trip. They left on a Friday; my heart and stomach fluttered all day at school. After our last class, Kim and I met in the locker room and changed out of our school uniforms and into jeans.

  “Hurry up,” said Kim. “I want to get down to the Block while it’s still light out, so no one will break into my mom’s car.” Kim had her mom’s car for the weekend. We slung our backpacks over our shoulders and walked out.

  As we drove downtown, I pressed my face against the window and marveled at the dirt on the streets. City dirt is different from country dirt. Where I come from, dirt is brown like mud or red like sandstone. In the city, black grit cakes under your fingernails and sticks to the concrete. The wind writes messages on the sidewalk with black dust and dead leaves. I soon realized we were driving in circles, passing the same buildings.

  “Are we lost?”

  “No, I’m looking for parking.”

  “Where are we?”

  “The Block, silly.”

  I winced. “It looks different by day.”

  While night had hidden everything but the neon signs, the sun exposed gray concrete buildings and trash in the street. Turned off, the neon signs were only pale plastic tubing and dusty electrical cords. We passed the same ones I’d seen at night—the Crystal Pussycat, Savetta’s Psychic Readings, the Plaza Saloon. At night, they had seemed intimidating, but seeing them by day was like watching a flashy porn star sleep in her underwear and snore.

  “Why didn’t you take that parking space we just passed?” I asked.

  “I want to park in front of the porn shop so I can keep an eye on the car.”

  After we’d made several more loops, a car pulled out right in front of us, across the street from Sylvester’s Videos. Kim pulled up alongside the space.

  “That’s tiny. You can’t fit in there.”

  “I’m going to try.” She cranked her steering wheel all the way to the right and backed into the space much too fast. As her back tires rammed the curb, her elbow struck the horn with a loud honk. A siren squealed in the distance. Across the street, the door to Sylvester’s Videos creaked open, and a guy with beady eyes and slicked-back gray hair stepped out of the store and glared at us.

  “Shit, Kim. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Get out and direct me,” she said calmly.

  Trembling, I climbed out of the passenger seat and motioned her into the space. When I glanced over my shoulder, the beady-eyed man had vanished. Kim got out of the car.

  “That’s the first time I’ve parallel parked since my Driver’s Ed test,” she said.

  I followed her across the street. The door to Sylvester’s Videos was covered with ripped, faded posters and random thumbtacks. The paint was chipped. It hadn’t been painted in years.

  I looked at Kim.

  “Come on, let’s go in.” She hoisted the door open—revealing a heavy black plastic curtain. Glancing at me, she pulled aside the curtain and slipped inside. I followed her into a dimly lit square room. Videos lined the walls floor to ceiling. The beady-eyed man—the same one who had glared at us outside—sat behind the cash register.

  “Howdy, girls.” He smiled with crooked yellow teeth.

  At the sound of his voice, two customers in the front room turned and peered at us. Both were bent over videos, with their collars turned up and hats pulled down over their eyes. Kim and I were the only two women in the store—perhaps the only women who had been there in a long time.

  Kim took me on a tour of the narrow, low-ceilinged rooms, pointing to X-rated videos with titles like: The Penile Colony, Hannah Does Her Sisters, Astropussy Strikes Back, Public Enema Number One, Two, and Three.

  “The booths are in the back.” Kim pointed to a man slipping behind a black plastic curtain. “You can rent your video, close the curtain, pop your video in the slot, and jerk off—Lisa…Lisa!” She poked me.

  I had frozen facing a wall of rubber penises and sundry other body parts, including hands and arms. I had never looked at a penis this way before. For the first time in my life, I could look at it without worrying about what the person attached to it thought of me. At the time I was too inexperienced to know that one never quite looks at penises the way one looks at dildos, propped up on shelves, strapped onto harnesses, or packaged in plastic, hanging from hooks on walls—like toys in Toys “R” Us, or meat in a butcher shop. Through my entire childhood, I had been looking at Ken dolls without penises. Suddenly I was looking at the opposite of Ken dolls: penises without bodies attached.

  Given my deprivation, this wall of “anatomically correct” models—in black, brown, and beige, complete with rippling rubber veins—was an embarrassment of riches. Some of them, labeled “stints,” were hollow and attached to elastic straps. One even had leather straps. What were they for? Then I saw the flying-saucer-shaped “butt plug.” Why would anyone need that? Plugs were those things you put in sinks to stop the water from draining. Was a butt plug the opposite of an enema? I was used to things having practical purposes. This was the first time I’d encountered something intended strictly for sexual pleasure, and I just didn’t get it.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a dildo before?” asked Kim.

  “N-no,” I stammered.

  “Check this out.” She pointed to a plastic package containing a foot-long rubber forearm with the hand clenched in a fist. I’d never seen anything like it, except those dismembered arms you find in Walgreens at Halloween.

  “What do you think you’re supposed to do with this?” Kim asked. “Bonk somebody over the head?” I was pretty sure that wasn’t what you were supposed to do, but before I could say anything, she yanked the plastic package off the hook and bonked me over the head with the rubber forearm.

  “Kim! Stop!”

  She clasped her hands over her mouth and burst into giggles, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Customers in the store turned and stared.

  “You’re going to get us kicked out of here!” I hissed.

  “Shhh! Lower your voice!”

  “Look. Here’s the description.” We huddled over the package and read the label in excited whispers:

  12.5 inches long, 3 inches wide, 9 inches around

  Size: Huge

  Product Category: Anal stimulation

  Color: Black

  Made of: Rubber

  For use in this part of the body: Anus

  “It’s for the…the…anus?” I asked in disbelief.

  “That’s the butt,” she whispered smugly.

  “I know what an anus is, but I don’t see how it could fit.” She shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”

  “Do all these things go up your butt?” I gestured to the wall of dildos and butt plugs.

  “They don’t go up my butt,” she giggled. “But you can put dildos up your vagina. Haven’t you ever put vegetables up there?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re kidding. What kind?”

  “Cucumbers, carrots, and zucchini. When I was about twelve, I used to sneak them out of the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator and put them back when I was done.”

  “Ew! Yuck!”

  Kim hung the rubber arm back on its hook. “We’re not getting this,” she whispered. “Let’s get some dildos. Here’s a thin one. It’s eight ninety-nine.”

  Kim handed me a package. I stared at the label: The Boss: Anatomically Correct Dong.

  “Are you suggesting I buy this?”

  “Why not? I’ll buy one too.”

  “How do you know it’ll fit?”

  “You just have to try your luck. You can’t try it on in a dressing room like a pair of jeans.”

  I laughed nervously.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s move on to the videos. That’s what we came here for.”

  I followed her back into the front room, where we rifled through hundreds of video boxes and decided on two orgy movies: Farm Family Free for All and Group Grope 9.

  Growing up in the ’70s and ’80s, I had b
ecome familiar with the made-for-TV Roman orgy—where toga-clad patricians get it on with priestesses of Isis in the Roman baths (made to look like contemporary Jacuzzis). My parents allowed me to watch these programs due to their so-called historical significance. Hence much of my early sex education came from I, Claudius, and the head of a penis still reminds me of a Roman centurion’s helmet. When you watch orgy scenes in historical dramas, perhaps you are supposed to think, My god, how decadent, and believe rampant orgies caused the fall of Rome. Modern libertines should learn from history and beware! But I watched the orgies and wondered, Why don’t people do that anymore? I thought Roman orgies, like Egyptian mummies, were ancient history. Farm Family Free for All and Group Grope 9 were my first signs that the orgy lived on, at least in contemporary porn.

  After nearly an hour of X-rated shopping, Kim and I finally carried our lurid wares to the cashier and spread them out on the counter. The beady-eyed man winked at us.

  “You want some K-Y Jelly for those dongs?”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Kim. “We’ll take some.”

  Outside, dusk had fallen, and the neon signs flickered on in orange, pink, and green. We crossed the street. Kim’s mother’s car was still intact. As we drove back to her house, I shivered when a cop car whizzed by. What if they pulled us over and found the porn videos and dildos? I pictured our mug shots on the front page with photos of The Boss underneath.

  When we finally made it back to Kim’s, we emptied our bags onto the living-room rug and tore open our dildo packages.

  “Hey, this isn’t very realistic. It doesn’t have balls!”

  The Boss, as I mentioned earlier, had no balls. Instead, the penis-shaped shaft ended in a handle and cross-guard, like a toy sword. I looked down at the dildo in my hands.