by Marco Vassi
I wondered if I would ever find a friend, much less a lover, on this trip. Feeling lonely, I headed for the club car, where I sat drinking Scotch and thinking about fucking men.
I felt nostalgia for the tension between men and women that can make lovemaking incredibly exciting. Women together are unthreatening, and gay female sexuality tends to be more sensual and drawn-out. The atmosphere on the train was cozy, intimate and non-competitive.
At customs I passed four Hispanic nurses, who invited me to join them that evening. Their tone was platonic. They seemed concerned that I was alone. I felt immensely grateful. And I was especially attracted to Maria, who had a sensual mouth, beautiful bedroom eyes and large breasts. Her friend Petra had long brown hair, but was not as hot-looking as her lover. The other couple consisted of Griselda, a middle-aged woman who had left a husband and three children at home, and her younger friend Inez.
When we arrived at the hotel in Montreal, everyone went up to nap. Waking at 4 P.M., I paid a visit to the editor. She declared that she disliked all of the women on the trip and was flying home the next morning.
At 6:30 I joined the group in the lobby. Greeting me like an old friend, the nurses invited me into their cab. We proceeded to an exclusive disco where the bartenders and the d.j. were all gay men. Maria, Petra, Griselda, Inez and I congregated at a table.
In a low voice, I confided to Maria about the perils of being single.
“We're all single here,” she answered provocatively.
I asked if she and Petra were a couple. She nodded, but added that they were no longer relating. I inquired whether they planned to sleep together that evening. Maria shrugged.
“Aha,” I thought, “then maybe I'll get lucky tonight.”
“Have you and Petra ever engaged in a threesome?” I wondered.
“Only with another man,” Maria answered.
All four nurses turned out to be bisexual. Each was extremely feminine and sensual. Like myself they were connoisseurs of sensuality rather than man-haters.
When I danced with Maria, she put an arm around my waist and touched my cheek. Petra boogied over and whispered in her ear. “She says we're getting too wild,” Maria told me. “Don't worry. Just give her time to think about it. She just likes to be in control of everything in her life.”
The new “gay anthem”—the song “I Am What I Am” from the Broadway musical La Cage Aux Folles—came on over the loudspeakers, and everyone in the club cheered. I was constantly startled to see men on the dance floor—only to realize after a moment that they were masculine-looking women.
A young black lesbian named Denise called out to me, “Hey, little fresh girl.”
Unfamiliar with lesbian etiquette, I could not imagine how to respond to this appellation. First of all, I was about five years older than she. Secondly, what did she mean by “fresh”? Was I supposed to act little-girlish? I decided to ignore her.
Finally, we went to a seafood restaurant. By now everyone was tipsy. I sat with the four nurses, and with Cecile and Denise. As we waited for our dinners, Inez told a string of dirty jokes. Cecile related how her mother had cried upon discovering that her daughter was gay. “She cried for what she was missing,” Griselda quipped.
When our lobsters arrived, Cecile asked how to extract the meat from the claw. Maria winked lasciviously. “Just find the hole and suck it out,” she advised.
Suddenly Wanda had an asthma attack. The other group leaders took her to the hospital after giving us a list of gay bars in town. Denise quickly whisked Cecile into a private cab.
“Gotta get this little girl home and back to bed,” she stated. The other two nurses returned to the hotel, citing fatigue. Maria, Petra and I decided to sample Montreal's lesbian scene.
The first bar was called Babyface. The proprietor, a stern, mannish-looking woman with gray hair, held a toy poodle in her arms. A crowd of 15 or so women sat around talking and drinking. It looked too tame for our taste and we left. The next two bars on the list had closed down. We decided to go back to the hotel.
“Let's just have drinks in the lobby,” Petra suggested.
We stopped off at Petra and Maria's room first to get some money. Petra turned on the television. Maria and I sat on a bed, watching it.
Suddenly Inez burst into the room, followed by Griselda. Inez carried four thin belts in her hand. She tackled Maria and pushed her down on the bed.
“Okay, I've always told you I was going to do this and now your time has come!” she cried half-jokingly. “Help me hold her down, girls.”
Maria did not resist. Soon her arms and legs were bound together.
“What should we do now?” Inez asked. “Beat her?”
I picked up a copy of The Joy of Lesbian Sex that lay on the bed.
“ ‘Lesbians do not usually partake in bondage and flagellation,’ “ I read aloud.
“In that case, let's paint her,” Inez suggested.
Maria rolled her eyes. She seemed quite blasé. Since I had identified myself as an artist, Inez handed me lipsticks and eyeliners.
“Paint her tits,” she cheerfully commanded me. Unbuttoning Maria's blouse she removed her bra to expose her large, blacknippled breasts.
“This is so boring, you guys,” Maria sighed.
I painted psychedelic flowers around Maria's nipples. I longed to suck her tits and pull down her panties, but hesitated, still unsure of how Petra was feeling. Inez took some snapshots; then she and Griselda exited, hand in hand.
“That was really lame,” Maria complained. “You call that bondage? Untie me.” We did so. Petra suggested going downstairs for drinks.
“I feel too lazy,” I said
“Me too,” Maria confessed. “I want to watch The Exorcist.“
Petra offered to go downstairs and bring back the drinks. As she walked out the door, she added, “It will help relax us.” I turned to Maria and murmured, “It looks like she reconsidered.”
“She just needed some time,” Maria replied.
We started kissing and feeling each other's breasts. On the TV screen, Regan masturbated with her crucifix. As Maria and I lay down on the bed together, I felt that sweet, calm sensation of being with another woman.
“You're really sensual,” I told Maria.
“So are you,” she answered, sucking my nipple. “God, your breasts are so sensitive. Can you come from having them sucked?”
“Yes,” I said.
We stroked each other until Petra returned. She silently undressed and climbed into bed with us. Suddenly, Maria was sucking my left breast and Petra my right. Having extremely sensitive nipples, I soon reached fever pitch. Moaning and crying, I stroked their hair and breasts. Then Maria moved down to lick and suck my clit with artful abandon. It was exciting to watch how passionate she could be. Her eyes were half closed with pleasure as her tongue skillfully flicked in and out of me.
After I came, Maria kissed Petra. I went down on Maria. Her cunt, like her nipples, was almost black against her dark tan skin. Her clit seemed to be the size of my thumb. I relished her firm, voluptuous body, but also liked Petra's. She had small breasts, wide hips and a large ass. As she sat on Maria's face, I admired how womanly and beautiful she looked.
Maria did not come from my oral ministrations. She got up and lay on top of Petra. They kissed with the poignancy of lovers. Then Maria went down on Petra, who had an orgasm with soft little moans. Petra began sucking Maria, who asked me to sit on her face. After Maria finally climaxed, the three of us lay side by side.
“Making love with women is so out of sight!” Maria exclaimed.
I could have remained in bed with them, but I sensed that they needed time alone. So after a few moments I returned to my room.
The next morning we went sightseeing. None of us even mentioned the previous evening's activities. Petra and Maria appeared to have resolved their differences and were a serious couple again. I felt like an outsider once more. But the sexual tension had vanished. We were n
ow just three girlfriends.
During the train ride home the atmosphere was considerably more convivial. Everyone danced in the aisles. Maria changed into a leopard-skin bathing suit and tight jeans. Denise yelped like Tarzan and carried her off over her shoulder. A mannish, middle-aged black woman kissed my hand. No one disturbed us. This time we had the last car on the train.
THE LESBIAN WHO LOVED MEN
By Donald Jackson
I met her after a sex famine—one of those stretches of weeks and months when females seem like alien, incomprehensible beings. Sex seemed no more than a treasured memory not likely to come my way again. Having just taken a job as a disk jockey in a small town, I felt very much on display.
Leslie was my immediate boss. She looked plain at first glance because she hid her figure beneath neutral gray suits and tweeds. But she had beautiful, out-of-style long blonde hair and flashing slate-gray eyes. A colleague confided that she was a friendly and fair boss, informal most of the time and firm only when crossed—and that she was a lesbian who lived with a feminist singer named Cynthia. Everyone knew about her relationship, but that had not stopped her rise to the position of station manager.
It took me a few weeks to realize that she was in the midst of great trauma. Her easygoing nature seemed forced when I studied her face and hands. She made too many jokes and put herself down too often. Finally it occurred to me that she was flirting—with men; with Frank, a fellow jock—and girlishly sizing us up like forbidden fruit.
Meanwhile I got laid occasionally, when old girlfriends came to visit me. But I wanted someone new and different. Yet every pretty girl I met was part of a couple. I started to feel quarantined.
Then one night I was working late on some promotion spots. Leslie came back after dinner, claiming she had to go over programming for the coming week. But I noticed that her eyes were red and rimmed with tears.
“We're breaking up, it's final,” she told me. It was the first time she spoke of her personal life to me. “It's really been dead for a long time, but now it's official. I'm moving out.”
The next morning her professional guard was up again. But now I was determined to see what her bland business suits were hiding. Fucking my boss was probably the dumbest thing I could do, but the job wasn't really that important to me.
No sooner had I made up my mind then she did too. She wanted Frank. I knew it before he did. The dope didn't even realize that her eyes followed him around the station as if he had a homing device in his pants. At my first office party, a barbecue at a nearby state park, Leslie got a little high and blurted, “Frank's so cute,” after he gave her a beer. Everything came easy to Frank—that was one reason why I disliked him. But I decided to sit back and wait for Leslie to discover that I was the quality item.
It took three months and another office party, this one at a beach house. Leslie looked incredible that evening. Her eyes sparkled and her long hair covered her breasts mysteriously. Cynthia seemed the farthest thing from her mind. We were drinking wine and talking when I lightly touched her elbow. The spark seemed genuine.
We went home together that night. First we walked the beach for miles. When I tried to put my arm around her, she pulled back sharply.
“I've never kissed a man,” she said. I assumed she was putting me on. But back in my apartment she insisted on wearing her slacks and blouse to bed. And she would not let me touch her. I thought I had won the prize, but had only been allowed to join the race. Thus began the slowest seduction between two basically consenting adults since the sexual revolution.
The situation improved a month later when we were in my bedroom watching television. Leslie sat behind me on the bed with her arms circling my chest. It was the farthest we had gone so far. Without thinking, I turned and kissed her. Her tongue met mine unafraid. The dam seemed to open. I pushed her down, ground my cock against her cunt, and reached inside the back of her blouse to unhinge her bra, fearing she might panic.
We lay on the bed, kissing wildly, and she returned the pressure from my cock. I explored her ass for the first time, pulling it toward me. She made no move for my cock, but bucked against me, legs spread, and I started to feel a wild, unwanted orgasm. I hadn't come in my pants since high school. It felt good, as if we were dry-humping in her parents' living room, afraid that her pop would walk in. Leslie was taken aback by the sticky wet spot on my pants. She thought that could only happen when a man was inside a woman. But at least she was becoming intrigued by the penis and its capabilities.
The next night, when we started to kiss, I slid my hand down inside her panties. Her clit was dripping wet. She did not resist. Pushing me on my back she unzipped my pants and freed my cock.
She took one look at it and said, “My God, it will never fit.”
I was in heaven but for the lack of a tape recorder. My cock measures five and three-quarter inches or six and one-quarter inches, depending on where the tape measure is placed. I was the ultimate average, for years persecuted by pictures of Johnny Wadd and his foot-long cock. Never had a gorgeous, horny young woman pulled back in fright at the sight of my own equipment. It's an experience that I highly recommend to every man at least once.
Using my finger to explore Leslie's cunt, I discovered the reason for her apprehension. To describe it as tight would be an understatement. Her sex life had apparently focused on oral and anal lovemaking, with a minimum of penetration by anything even as large as a finger. This was unexplored territory! This was a certifiable virgin eager to have me captain of her maiden voyage!
“You'll have to teach me how to suck it,” she declared. “I won't let you put it in yet.”
I found it in my heart to teach her how to administer a blowjob. Lying on my back with my head on a pillow, I encouraged her to first rub her breasts over and around my cock, then slowly lick the bottom of the balls and the entire shaft before gently taking the cock into her mouth and sucking it while tonguing the head. I thought she would rebel at this explicit, paint-by-numbers drill, but she had no hesitation.
After bringing me to fever pitch, she strapped my legs over her shoulders while she crouched over my cock. Wolfing it hungrily, she stuck her finger deep into my anus with more gusto than any woman ever had before. She certainly was not interested in “being gentle.” Meanwhile she increased the speed of her sucking. Just before I came I glanced up. Her eyes looked crazed with pleasure. She swallowed my come eagerly.
“You're a natural,” I moaned, exhausted and drained. “You know how to make a man feel terrific.”
She smiled. It was a smile I saw more and more of as our closeness grew. We worked toward fucking slowly by stretching her cunt with my fingers and tongue until she decided two weeks later that she was elastic enough to deal with my cock. After that, her sexual appetite became voracious. She wanted to try everything, as if making up for very precious lost time.
I shied away from anal sex, thinking the initial pain might be too much for her. But she bought the Vaseline on her own and insisted that I take her. We did it gently the first time, hard and piercing the next. She relished the mix of pleasure and pain. Sometimes I fucked her up the ass standing up, or with her lying on her back on top of me. And she often put me on all fours so she could lick my anus. Then she would plunge her fingers deep inside while alternately cupping my balls and stroking my cock with her other hand. That posture gave me an unreal combination of feeling hot, vulnerable and pleasured at the same time.
I began to think we would be together forever. Her lesbianism never bothered me; it seemed at first like an odd ethnic trait, no more meaningful than if she had been Irish or Venezuelan. Politically, I knew that lesbianism was a choice, not a disease, as our parents thought. I never felt it was something to be ashamed of.
When she moved into my place, I quickly discovered that Leslie, despite her untraditional sexual past, was the most conventional of women. My women friends even thought she was unliberated and my male friends figured I had struck it rich. She thrive
d on cooking for me and making our home look wonderful. I was waited on hand and foot by a sexy young woman who only wanted to make me happy and comfortable.
And so our problems began. Our sex life flourished, but boredom set in elsewhere. I became critical of her for having no ambition. Her work at the station slacked off and the general manager rebuked her for taking too much time off. Formerly a workaholic, she now rushed home to prepare dinner. Our being together at the station further complicated matters all day long. I started snapping at Leslie far too often.
After a year, she asked for a commitment. She wanted us to always be together and for me to be faithful. Soon afterwards I began paying more attention to other women. I also felt guilty for not giving this wonderful person what she deserved. I even started to rethink Leslie's gay past and found myself, for the first time, filled with doubts.
Could I tell my parents that she had been gay? If we had a family, would our children ever think their mother had a dark secret about her past? Was I facing a lifetime of deception?
At bottom I knew such thoughts were mere excuses. But I also felt that our passion had soured. Even if I were living with the world's most beautiful blonde, I would worry about the inevitable day when her breasts sagged, or convince myself that she must be dumb since she was so gorgeous, or that she was too flashy to be faithful. I was not proud of myself.
I also developed a hypocritical definition of fidelity. I went home with other women, unbuttoned their blouses, feasted on their breasts, then blithely informed them that I could not fuck because of my “commitment” to Leslie. However, I would permit them to go down on me. After coming in their mouths, I went home to Leslie, relieved that I had not violated her trust.