Best Lesbian Erotica 2015

by Laura Antoniou

  Tam stared at her, eye to eye. “Baby, we’re not confused. We just figured out what we really mean to each other.”

  The phone rang. “Jesus. Can’t you put her on hold?” Tam wanted to grab a knife out of a drawer in Deirdre’s kitchen, run to Paulie’s house and threaten to turn her into hamburger.

  Deirdre sat up. “Don’t worry, Tam. I’ll do something better. I can report her to the phone company for harassment. I’d like to get a restraining order against her, but first she has to do something worse than phoning me fifty times a day. I think that could be arranged.”

  Tam felt chilled to the bone. Deirdre was already becoming the Queen of Torts, and she didn’t want protection. Worst of all, she was thinking too much about Paulie.

  Tam made things worse. “Maybe if I stay with you for a few days—” She stopped when she saw the look on Deirdre’s face.

  “Oh, Tam. No way. Look, I’m really glad you, I mean we, um, you gave me what I needed. I really needed it and I’m grateful. Thank you. But we can’t afford to ruin our friendship.”

  Tam was speechless for a second. “Ruin it?” she shot back. “Deirdre, we need to take it to the next level.”

  Deirdre left the sofa with amazing speed, and put her clothes back on like a knight putting on armor. “Seriously, Tam. You know I’m right. I don’t think we should see each other for about a month.”

  Tam felt desperate. She knew too well how Deirdre would react if pushed. “How about a week?” she bargained. “Not a month. And why don’t we meet in a coffee shop, maybe Java’s, to talk about our relationship. Meanwhile, if you need me for anything…”

  “I’ll call you,” Deirdre promised unconvincingly. “Okay, next Sunday at Java’s. At noon.”

  “I’ll be counting the minutes,” said Tam. “Okay, okay. I’m leaving. But please be there, Deirdre. Please.”

  “I will. Take care, Tam.” The honest suitor was left to scramble off the sofa, take her clothes to the bathroom, make herself presentable and leave as quickly as possible. It was not what she wanted to do, but she had the sense to know that lingering would be counterproductive.

  The week dragged by with the excruciating slowness of dripping water wearing away the enamel in a sink. Tam couldn’t stop thinking about Deirdre, and she channeled her anxiety into a song about the scene in the bar, a lesbian version of the shootout at the O.K. Corral. Every day when she came home from her job at the music store, she took a beer out of the fridge, pulled out her guitar and strummed some chords. None of the notes really jelled into a satisfying melody, but she told herself that disappointment and despair were fuel for her art.

  At last Sunday arrived. Tam showered and dressed to the sound of church bells, and wondered how many churchgoers really gained relief by confiding their troubles to the Lord. She wasn’t a believer, and neither was Deirdre. Their escape from the Christianity of their families was one the things they had in common.

  Thanks to Whomever, Java’s was half-empty and Deirdre sat alone at a table. She was wearing a favorite blue blouse that set off her blue-gray eyes, and Tam pondered her wardrobe choice. Why was Deirdre determined to look adorable?

  Deirdre didn’t stand up, but she gave Tam an encouraging look. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” answered Tam. “I need a mocha latte for this. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I have a cappuccino and a lemon square. I’m good.”

  You’re excellent, thought Tam, but you don’t believe it. That’s the root of your problems.

  Tam returned to the table, and Deirdre looked her in the eyes. “So?” asked Tam.

  “So Paulie agreed to leave me alone after I warned her about legal consequences.”

  Tam tried to keep the smile off her face, but couldn’t. “Good girl.”

  “You know me,” said Deirdre. “Tam, I—couldn’t stop thinking about last week. You know.”

  “Oh, I know. Me too.” Tam resisted the impulse to reach across the table to kiss her beloved.

  “I think we should agree on some rules.” Deirdre actually reached for Tam’s hand as she was about to grasp her coffee cup.

  “Rules?” Tam felt as if she had been handed a surprise package that just might be a bomb.

  “Our relationship has changed. We can’t go back now. We need to name it for what it is.”

  Tam felt as if her smile would split her face. “A love that was meant to be?”

  Deirdre looked thoughtful. “Lust and friendship? A hot-crotch conspiracy? I don’t know. You could write a song about it.”

  “I’m working on it, my dear. And I’ll tell the whole world it’s about you.”

  Deirdre laughed on a sigh. “Tam, control yourself.”

  Tam took a deep breath. “Deirdre, how do you feel about toys? You know.”

  Deirdre gave her a wicked grin. “Sex toys? I love them.”

  “Seriously? You never said so.”

  “You never asked,” replied the vixen. “So I never showed you mine.” Tam felt light-headed. Deirdre went on: “We need some rules so we don’t get hurt. I just want us to go slow. No moving in together for at least six months, and I think, I mean, we should promise not to date anyone else until we really know what we want to do. Tam.”

  “Honey, I don’t want anyone but you. I swear I’ll be faithful to you. If either of us ever wants to be with someone else, she should tell the other first.”

  Deirdre looked relieved. “Exactly.” She looked down, then looked Tam in the eyes. “Tam. Did I ever tell you you’re my hero?”

  “You’re telling me now.” Tam held Deirdre’s hand, hoping her touch would convey everything she wanted to say. “I’ll try to live up to that.” Tam imagined Deirdre naked, waiting for her in a real bed after brilliantly defending a client in court. Tam knew her woman was a firecracker, and she felt profoundly lucky.

  “Tam.” Deirdre looked dewy-eyed, as though she were fighting off tears. “I didn’t see what was right in front of me. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, honey.” Tam felt supremely confident, at least in the moment. “We’re here now, and we both know what we want. One day at a time, right?”

  That was the phrase Deirdre was planning to use. “You got it.”

  MY VISIT TO SUE ANNE

  Anna Watson

  I wasn’t the youngest guy at Boys’ Night Out, but I was definitely the least experienced. You should have heard the raunchy way those guys talked! If everything they said was true there wasn’t a femme within the whole state of Massachusetts who hadn’t been despoiled by Clem or Liz or Aiden or the half dozen other butches and transmen who showed up every Sunday afternoon at the VFW. If you believed their boasts, then they’d had girls in alleyways, bathrooms, up against cars and vans, in the beds of pickup trucks, outside by the reservoir, inside in hot tubs, and don’t even get them started on positions and orifices, not that they needed any encouragement, because, ducky luv, they’d been everywhere. Actually, I did tend to encourage them, because as long as they were talking about their own prowess, they kept their mucky paws off of my own private business. They sure did get a kick out of the fact that I was going through a particularly arid dry spell, though. They had very clever, subtle ongoing jokes about it, often remarking that I must have an invisible “Femme-away” force field around me, or a big NO FEMMES circle slash emblazoned on my forehead. Or on my dick, according to Liz, and then she about ruptured herself laughing. Hardy har har.

  I acted like none of it bothered me, like I was just fine taking a joke. I would drink my Bud Light and stay long enough to get a good dose of masculine bonding, then hie me back to the stacks, to the very carrel in which Aiden claimed he took a femme named Michelle doggie-style, but which was now as celibate as a church with only my tidy stacks of books and papers for excitement.

  This extremely sorry state of affairs had been going on so long that I was more or less used to it, and barely noticed (so I told myself) one afternoon when the teasing was particularly raucous, probably for the b
enefit of a new guy, Charley, a young butch heavily invested in longboarding. After putting up with the manly joshing for about as long as I could take, I made my excuses—as always, they had to do with getting back to my research—and left them. I was anxious to get home, actually, divest myself of my dick (I always made a point of packing to Boys’ Night, my butch armor) and get in a hot bath. So anxious, in fact, that I didn’t notice Charley leaving as well, but when I got to my car, he was standing there, holding his board.

  “Can I get a ride?”

  “Sure, saddle up.” I assumed he was too tipsy to longboard and didn’t think much of it. When I pulled up in front of the grotty three-family where he lived with probably umpteen roommates, I expected him to quickly hop out with a lackadaisical, “Thanks, bro!” but he tarried.

  “Del,” he began. Yes, my name is Delilah. Shut up.

  “Huh?” I had a paper due and was still mentally tracking down some articles.

  “Why don’t you go see Sue Anne?”

  “Who?”

  “You know. Sue Anne. The Femme?”

  He actually said it that way, with a capitol F. I shook my head, thinking, Heck, son, this is Lesbianville, USA, and there are a whole slew of femmes out here, and probably even a few Femmes as well, just ask them. Sue Anne wasn’t ringing a bell, except…

  “You mean that old gal who hangs out at Diva’s sometimes?” I didn’t know her to speak to, but was vaguely aware that she was a local character, probably about a hundred years old and still stepping out, who dressed like it was the 1940s and got young studs to buy her Tom Collinses and light her ciggies.

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “What do you mean, go see her? Why should I?” Actually, now that he mentioned it, it didn’t sound like such a bad idea. She might have something for me, especially if she was from the Midwest. I was working on my PhD in queer studies and my thesis was on the nascent queer liberation movement, concentrating on what our poor, misguided brothers and sisters on the coasts refer to as “flyover country.” Sue Anne was definitely old enough to remember when Phyllis and the other Del started Daughters of Bilitis and the effect that had on lesbians all over America; she might even have a scrapbook or something that could be useful. This was brilliant! I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, except that I’m definitely more comfortable with books and websites than with people. Charley was looking at me expectantly, so I grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “That’s a great idea!” I said. “I’ll definitely give her a shout.”

  “You should.” Now he did get out, trying not to bump into anything with his board. “You know she’s famous in L.A.? That’s where she used to live.”

  I nodded, still grinning, but I’d already abandoned the idea of talking with her. L.A. was no use to me. If only she’d been from somewhere like Saint Louis! That would have been interesting. Which reminded me that I needed to track down a copy of Claude Harland’s amazing autobiography because there was a quote I needed, and so I drove off, putting the whole slightly odd conversation behind me.

  Every once in a while, when I got into such a state of unbearable need that I couldn’t beat it back (excuse me) with study and more study, research and more research, I let one of the guys fix me up with a date. Those guys all had lots of femme friends, some of whom purported to think I was cute, and I was slowly disappointing the lot of them. We would go on one date, and I might even be allowed to give them a peck on the cheek, but then they wouldn’t return my calls and I would hear why at the VFW later. Michelle thought I was too serious (and probably disapproved of the boring manner in which I was using “her” carrel); Jenny thought my sense of humor was weird and that my laugh was too high-pitched; Barb got grossed out when I started talking about my childhood habit of attempting to insert pennies into my nostrils alone at night in my bed, just to see if I could (it’s true that I don’t get out much and perhaps this wasn’t the best memory to share over tiramisu, but we were discussing the fact that they’re always saying they’re going to stop making pennies and then they don’t—I didn’t just bring it up completely randomly!); Esther said I wasn’t butch enough for her, and then, right after that below-the-belt blow, Marilee let me know loudly and in no uncertain terms that I didn’t have what it would take to get her crawling naked across the kitchen floor to worship my shiny boots (it’s true, I was wearing espadrilles) before we’d even gotten to the restaurant. I’m sure passersby on the sidewalk will remember the astonished look on my face as I watched her stalk off.

  It had taken me some time to get back in the mood after Marilee, but here I was, about to meet Sarah, hope springing eternal in the butchly chest. I was wearing what I fondly believed was a presentable outfit because it was all I ever wore, despite the best efforts of my more dapper brothers: jeans, a polo button-down and, since it was winter, a pair of hiking boots. I picked her up and knew, just as soon as she got in the car, that it wouldn’t work out. Not that she wasn’t nice, because she was, but she just didn’t do anything for me. At all. The rest of my dates had been much more my style, but sadly, Sarah was not ringing my bell, despite her trim figure, whimsical manicure (little Betty Boops on her long nails) and her cheerful demeanor. I made it through dinner—just barely—without cracking out in huge yawns, and took her home as soon as it was nominally polite. I couldn’t even bring myself to give her a peck on the cheek, although I believe she was hoping for one. It was Clem who had set us up, and it was Clem I called in despair. I had just about had it.

  He answered on the first ring. “No go with Sarah?”

  “No go, no go, no go!” Forgive me if I was whining. A guy can take only so much, even a mild-mannered, usually decorous guy such as myself, and it had been over a year since I’d been on the receiving end of any intimate affection.

  “Well, dude, I don’t know what to tell you. What the hell. Sarah’s a nice girl, and she’s seriously hot. I fucked her…”

  “I know, I know!” I didn’t want to hear about the suspension bridge over the gorge again, the spray from the waterfall, all that. “She just didn’t do it for me.”

  “Well, no arguing with that. Okay, let me think. Denise is out, she’s about to get married, Carla, no, she’s got that whole abstinence thing going on with her Master, and Miou-Miou suddenly turned butch—I can’t even think about that—okay, wait, give me a minute. Wait. Okay, dude, I’ve got it! At this point, you just need some relief, right? I mean, I know you’re looking for the girl you can marry and take home to mama, but at this point getting your rocks off is really more of a priority, am I right?”

  Much as I hated to admit it, he was right. “That would be just the ticket,” I said in a small voice.

  “Okay, then, I’ve got it! You have to go see Sue Anne. Of course! Why the fuck didn’t we think of her before?”

  “Who?” Then I remembered. “The aged crone from Diva’s? What is it with her?”

  “Okay, it’s a little bit kinky, a little bit twisted, but it’s a good option in your desperate situation—trust me!”

  “Clem, I’m desperate, but not that desperate! I mean, Harold and Maude is a cute film and everything, but…”

  Clem was chuckling, but there was something grave in his voice when he said, “No. Trust me, man. Go see her.”

  He gave me all the information, address, phone number, the best time to call since she didn’t have a cell, just a landline, and he wasn’t even sure she had voice mail. I didn’t write it down. I thought he was kidding. But the next Boys’ Night Out, everyone asked me about my visit, and when I just laughed and shrugged it off, they all got really serious.

  “Dude, you are going to dry up and blow away if you don’t get laid,” said Liz, resting her hand on the bulge at the front of her jeans. “Your pecker is going to self-combust.”

  The other guys were nodding.

  “It’s not healthy,” said Aiden.

  “Not healthy at all,” agreed Clem. “Don’t wait forever, man. We�
��ve all been there!”

  “Been where? In your grandmother’s underpants?” I’m usually not that sharp with the fellas, but I had had about enough of them, too. Everything was irritating and unpleasant. I finished my beer and left, since even if no one else would, the library always welcomed me with open arms. Once again, Charley was waiting by my car. I didn’t say anything, just unlocked the doors and he got in.

  “Drive,” he said. “I already called her. She’s expecting you.”

  Sue Anne lived in a bungalow in a quiet neighborhood in Easthampton with an amazing view of Mount Tom. Not that I was paying too much attention, since I was devoting most of my energy to being nervous and angry, but it was hard to miss: the gorgeous vista, dusted with snow, soaring up and up, the stern mountain glare. A person could feel very small at the bottom of that big hill.

  I parked in the driveway and we got out. The door to the bungalow opened, but I couldn’t see anyone. Charley walked up the path with me, then turned and got on his board, grinning and waving as he pushed off. Probably the guys had told him he had to make sure I went in. Bastards! Sighing, I turned to greet my hostess. Only there was no one there.

  Curious now as well as frustrated and embarrassed, I went in. I could smell clove cigarettes with a faint, comforting under-aroma of dog. The door opened right onto the living room, which was cozy and a little messy, newspapers scattered here and there, a fire in the fireplace and an old lab mix thumping his tail at me from his basket. I stroked his head, calling out, “Hello?”

  “Yes, dear. Come right on back! Make sure you close the door behind you.”

  That voice! Was that Sue Anne? I realized I’d never heard her speak, never gotten close enough to her in the club. From her voice, you couldn’t tell she was a granny. From her voice, you would think that she was a sultry young thing, all big eyes and heaving bosom, waiting for you wearing a wisp of nothing, a scrap of lace you could pluck from her, exposing her rosy skin, her ripe limbs and willing cunt. I actually said cunt like that in my head, and I am not generally one to use crude words. It was her voice that did it, her voice that would have made even the world’s most proper gentleman begin to sweat and swear. I walked through the dim hallway to the back of the bungalow, and I am not joking when I say that I was leading with my cock.