Sometimes She Lets Me

by Tristan Taormino

  I love writers’ conferences.

  Since then, she’s let me talk her out of her boxer briefs and into all kinds of hot and nasty fun, and has even developed quite a liking for getting fucked with my biggest dick, one that makes her crack jokes about getting to be a size queen in her old age. But I always have to wait until she’s fucked me at least once, first, like she needs to reground herself in the idea whenever we meet again, as if her gentleman butch sense of the rightness and order of the world can’t allow her to experience her own desire until everyone else has been squared away first. Not to suggest that fucking me isn’t one of her desires. It seems clear to me at this stage that it is. But.… You know what I mean.

  I slide my body up until my mouth is right against her ear. I say, “Oh. Oh, you fucking hot thing, so good to me, I want to make you feel so good, man, I want to do you so right….” I brush my lips against her ear, buck my crotch against her hip, start to move next to her. My hands find her nipples and start to rub, gently, just how she likes. She groans, quietly. I go on: “Mmmm. AJ, I want something. I want something from you, so bad.”

  She picks her head up and looks at me. She loves when I say what I want, she likes it that I trust her, and that I’m so hot for her. She says low, into my ear, “What’s that, hm? Tell me. Tell me what you want, greedy.”

  Pressing myself against her, selling it with my entire body, lacing my fingers through her hair, I let a rush of hot breath out across her ear, and say, “Please. Please, teach me how to make you come.”

  She draws back, shocked, looks at my face. She travels with a Magic Wand and uses it, buzzing herself off while I fuck her and having noisy good times about it. But I have a secret hunch about her. I think maybe she’s like me, that there’s some other, nonelectric way to get the job done, something that requires the exact right touch and a lot of work, something she never confesses because she doesn’t want to be that much work, or be that exposed, or make someone else work that hard on her behalf, but which is incredibly satisfying in a totally different way. I’ve seen the signs. I want to know what it is. I want to do her like that, want to make her come for me without her having to do anything at all. I want her to trust me like that.

  I slide closer, out of her gaze, heart pounding, positioning my lips next to her ear again. “Please, AJ. Tell me what to do. I promise I’ll do a good job for you. I swear I will. Use me to get yourself off. You deserve it, god, you deserve it.”

  Her big hands close around two fistfuls of hair, and she drags my head away from hers so she can see my face, mouth slack from panting to catch my breath. I hold her gaze and try to make my eyes communicate exactly what I’m thinking, what she wants to see: Yes, I mean it. Yes, I want this.

  She drags my head back, my ear against her mouth, and crushes me tight against her in a hug. I wonder whether she’s crying. I didn’t mean to make her cry, I wanted to make her come, which is wetness at a totally different end, and I’m just about to start apologizing all over myself when she says, “You won’t want to do it.”

  The hell I won’t. I’d walk barefoot across a mile of burning sand to watch this butch dry dishes on videotape. “Trust me, I will,” I say.

  After a long, long pause, during which I have the good sense to keep quiet, she says in my ear, so quietly I can barely hear her: “Lick my asshole.”

  I’m elated. I groan, “Oh, holy shit, yeah,” into her ear, start fumbling the harness off, looking for the plastic wrap, so excited I can’t remember not to do five things at once. I knock over the lube, right it, find the plastic, get her out of the harness and flat on her back on the bed with a pillow under her hips before she can start waffling or change her mind. I tear off a piece of wrap, put it aside, and start kissing her, laying my body back along the warm, furry, delicious length of hers, kissing her soft and slow with little nips of my teeth, running my hands down the sides of her body, stroking her strong arms and her wide hips, working my way down her body, so slowly, rolling her nipples between my lips for a long time, sucking them so, so gently and making her push her cunt up to me, licking at her tattoos. I keep my knees between her legs so she can’t grind. I want her to be hungry when I finally touch her, want her to want it so much. I want this to last. I want to show her what she’s worth—all my attention, all my desire.

  Finally, I bend my head and start nuzzling against the crack of her ass, kissing and nipping at her asscheeks, reaching surreptitiously for the Saran Wrap while I squeeze her ass between my hands, pulling her cheeks apart, smoothing the plastic into place, and sliding nose first between her cheeks. Her legs are bent at the knee. I can’t believe she’s so open to me but I am not complaining. I dig in.

  I trace my tongue up and down her crack, so gently, full of hot breath. I want her to feel the heat even through the barrier, want her to be able to imagine it isn’t there. I start to work my tongue in a little deeper, wriggling it against the sensitive spots, taking long, long licks from just below the opening of her cunt over and past her asshole, licking a fraction harder with each swipe of my tongue. She sighs, shifts her hips, presses against me. Encouraged, I keep on, starting to vary the pressure and depth of each lick, sometimes using the broad flat of my tongue and sometimes just the very tip, as hard as I can make it; I trace around the opening of her asshole, crinkled tightly shut, tracing my tongue along each of the tiny sunburst furrows of skin that radiate out from it, trying to get it to trust me. On one of the licks, I miscalculate and start pressing just a bit too soon, pushing the tip of my tongue right against the hole.

  She moans. My cunt starts to do a slow boil, and I redouble my efforts. I kiss, lick, and nuzzle against her asshole, pushing my nose against it playfully, working against it with my tongue, feeling it start to open, starting to smell how much she likes it—when I pick up my head to say this to her, I see the small, slow stream of milky come easing its way out of her cunt and down the crack of her ass. Holy Christ. I put my head back down, and get back to work.

  How do I describe this? It becomes the Zen of asslicking, the whole world gets reduced to about three inches of warm, wet flesh and every sound she makes. Her hand comes down and locks itself in my hair, she pulls me closer into her asscrack, tongue first, finally opening up enough for me to insinuate it into her hole and wriggle, just a tiny bit, but it makes her make a noise I’d never heard before, and I suddenly don’t care how much my neck hurts or how hard it is to get my tongue into her, I just want her to make that noise again. I start fucking her hole with my tongue, slow and steady, the plastic wrap a mess around my face, and she starts grinding back against me, so hard it hurts my nose, but I am on a mission now.

  Suddenly she lets loose my hair, and I’m not sure what she wants. I start to pick my head up but she growls, “Don’t stop, oh, please, don’t, please don’t stop,” and grabs my hand instead, dragging it up and pulling it hard against her clit, which is harder than I have ever felt it, literally standing straight out of the hood like a tiny cock. I work it differently than I normally would, in a two-fingered jack-off motion I learned for transmen with testosterone-enhanced parts, up and down the sides with occasional swipes across the head, and she loves it, starts panting and gasping while I fuck my face further into her now-open, gripping asshole and work her clit at the same time. I can tell she’s going to come soon. I don’t change a thing, I keep doing exactly what I’m doing, same speed, same pace, if I’m doing it right I want to keep doing it right, I want to do it right for her, want to make her feel as good as she makes me feel, so I keep my hand steady and blink the sweat out of my eyes and take a deep breath for one more long sally, plunging my tongue back into her ass on the downstroke and pulling it out on the up, letting her buck between the two pleasures, until she yells, “Oh, holy motherfucking god!” and comes with a bellow that even the moderately soundproofed hotel room probably doesn’t contain, nearly breaking my neck as she whips her legs together around my face and squeezes them hard, hand clamping down over my hands, writhi
ng on the bed in pleasure and riding what I hope like hell are several strong aftershocks, each one announced with a guttural cry.

  Soon, she’s still. I tap her on the thigh to remind her that my head is still between her legs and when she opens them, I scramble up, hurrying to cover her naked skin with mine, wrapping her up against me, holding her and whispering, “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” into her ear like a mantra, over and over. She looks at me.

  “That was…oh. Wow. Em, that was….” She trails off, nuzzles further into the crook of my neck, rubbing her sweaty skin against mine. We breathe together for a minute. I drag the ugly bedspread over us to keep us warm, being careful to hold her tight the whole time, not wanting to break this moment. I can’t even believe she trusted me with that. It makes me feel something I can’t explain, and while I’m searching for the words, so I can tell her, she picks her head back up, and whispers, so quietly for such a big, confident butch, so shyly, “Did you like it?”

  I grin. I take her hand, draw it down to my soaking wet cunt, brushing her fingertips over my hard clit. “What do you think?” I ask, laughing a little into her ear.

  She growls hungrily, rolls me over underneath her, and says, “I think you’re a little slut, that’s what I think.”

  I nod happily, and spread my legs wider.

  ANONYMOUS

  Amie M. Evans

  She grabs a fistful of my hair before the door closes behind us. She locks the bolt and pulls me over to the bed. “I’ll call you Dee and you call me Jimmy. Get on your knees.”

  As she unzips her pants, the cock I felt on the ride pops out. She pulls my head toward it and hisses, “Suck it, bitch.”

  It is almost impossible to find anonymous lesbian sex. Maybe in San Francisco or possibly New York City you can find it at an upscale women’s club or cutting-edge cruising spots, but not in Boston. Not proper New England Boston. The mixture of Puritan values and lesbian ethics deters casual lesbian anything. But I like a challenge, so I was determined to engage in anonymous lesbian sex in Boston. Anonymous sex with real live lesbians. No exchange of numbers or first-date sex; but rough, hard, noname sex: the stuff of gay boy novels and urban myths.

  It is good to have goals.

  I considered personal ads for a while. I read through them, studied them for content and form, and ruled out useless information about beaches, smoking, and cats. Then I wrote my own ad:Hot, femme dyke bottom (should I hyphenate or not?) seeks sexy butch top (again to hyphenate or not?) for anonymous kinky sexual encounter.

  She would call and leave her name and number and we would set up a time and date and I smelled the U-Haul—parked just around the corner.

  The second ad I composed read like this:Hot femme-dyke-bottom seeks sexy butch-top for anonymous kinky sexual encounter. (At this point I thought hyphens were the way to go. They showed the connection of the identity markers I was using to solicit a sexual partner.) Meet me at the Duck Statue in the Common Gardens on Saturday at 9P.M. I’ll wear a red silk scarf around my neck; you wear a red bandanna on your wrist.

  This ad eliminated the phone calls, the messages, the number exchanges. It created the fantasy of being picked up blindly in the park—something I’ve envied in gay boys since I was first introduced to their culture. But the problem with this ad was that every horny straight guy with a lesbian fantasy who reads the women-seeking-women classifieds would show up with a hard-on. A male gang-bang was not what I had in mind. Not to mention, what if no one showed up? New England dykes—dykes in general, but especially New England dykes—aren’t known for their sexual abandon. How many Saturday nights would I have to spend wearing a red silk scarf and standing by the Make Way for Ducklings Statue waiting for Ms. Butch-Top? The Boston Mounted Police would speculate about what I was doing there. An investigation into possible drug trafficking or prostitution would ensue and countless taxpayer dollars would be wasted before they discovered I was just after a cheap lesbian-sexual thrill. Of course, a whole series of newspaper articles on lesbian sexual habits would appear, and the Boston Pride Committee would have to do more than ban a lesbian float featuring an empty bed to prove to mainstream corporate sponsors and the general public that queers don’t really have sex. No, the classifieds, as always, were a bust.

  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 showerers 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 onenight-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 fest, 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 kneehigh, 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 androlesbians in jeans and button-downs o
ver 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.