One town passed; another. I dozed against the inflexible headrest, one hand on my backpack, drained by a day of sun, salt water, and Italian waiters. One more town; another. The express steamed by. It was a shadow that woke me.
“You was staring at me. At the stazione.” The girl stood before me, her eyes throwing darts at me, her knees knocking as she braced herself against the swaying of the train.
“I wasn’t staring.”
“Oh! You wasn’t estaring. What was you doing.” Her skirt strained against one thigh, then swung with the train. She had a hand on the seats on either side of her.
I had no answer.
“You are what? A lesbian?”
“I have a boyfriend. In America. A-mer-i-ca. Boy-f-rend.” I felt like the crazy mother in this teen movie I once saw, exaggerating my English as if it would make it easier to understand.
“Ah.” The train lurched and one knee lunged closer, into the space in front of the seat next to me. “A boy-a-fren.” She slipped into the seat beside me, her knees just brushing mine. She leaned over. “What-a is his name?”
“Steven.”
“And-a what does he do?” She leaned close enough that I could feel her breast suggested against my shoulder.
“He’s a television producer. He works in TV. He lives in Anaheim.”
“Ahhh.” She settled back in her chair, her flesh withdrawn. The interchange had satisfied her; she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. I felt bereft.
“And you?” I ventured. “You’re a student, no?” The no was good; it sounded Italian, I thought.
Her eyelids rose halfway and she looked at me without turning her head. “No…” she drawled. “In the summer I am just a girl.” She laughed a throaty laugh for someone so young, watching me, then closed her eyes again.
The train had been winding along the coast, just above the beaches. It was approaching the cliffs. We were plunged into darkness as the train entered a tunnel. I felt a hand on my knee. The breasts against my shoulder again. Her voice asked, “Do you miss your boy-a-fren very much?”
I didn’t.
My hand found her waist. I couldn’t stop myself. I touched all the way up her side to the edge of her breast. I leaned my head nearer to hers and inhaled that sweet, salty adolescent scent. When I touched my lips to her throat her back arched suddenly, as if a spring had been tripped. She grabbed my hand and guided it across the fabric over her breasts.
The train shot out of the darkness and into the blinding Mediterranean light. I hadn’t realized she’d thrown her left knee over mine. As she pulled it back I saw a white triangle trapped by two thighs.
She leaned back again. “Boy-a-fren…” she sang softly, looking the other direction.
We stared out the window. A town: a boy looked up at the windows as we passed and did not wave. After a minute, she swung her knees over my lap without looking at me. Her torso shifted toward me but her face looked forward. Without looking at her I put my hands on her knees, I let one hand move to the inside of her thighs. She shifted her pelvis and as she did her dress straps fell from her shoulders. Her hands stayed at her sides, steadying her. Her torso threatened to burst the dress at the seams.
She moved herself so that she was under my left arm. I let that happen. I could just slip my fingers into the top of her dress.
Shhht. The train plunged headlong into another tunnel and the fingers of my other hand sought that triangle inside her skirt. The bikini material was thin. Through it, I could feel her labia and the little knob that was her clit. She leaned and I touched each side of her ass. I let my fingers play over her. She was now taut, her breathing as labored as my own.
The train exploded with light. She disentangled herself from me, stood shakily. Strips of black hair escaped their clasp. Without looking directly at me, she motioned for me to follow her. We tottered to the end of the car, ascended the steps. She fumbled at the bathroom’s latch and I stood close behind her, pressing my pelvis against her ass.
When we had latched the door and were engulfed in the smell of urine, she lifted the dress over her head and drew out the strings that held those few scraps of material to her. Her areolas were rust-colored, and seaweed clung to her pubic fuzz. I took off my top and put myself against her. My small white breasts felt clammy against her warm brown ones. She kissed me, and let me kiss her. Her lips were lovely, soft, and knew just enough—but not too much—about how to kiss.
Finally my lips were at her labia, and I stuck out my tongue to taste her. She raised a leg over my shoulder and made a sound. I lapped and groped, and finally snuck a lone finger into her. She took it, and wanted more. Her fingers traced the outlines of my breasts. Her shoe had slipped off and I could feel her foot pushing into my back.
The train gears screamed; we were nearing the first stop of the express. “This is my stazione.” She barely managed to speak. She moved her leg, and I stood up. She turned and retrieved her dress from the sink. The train had slowed but not stopped as she struggled with the dress. I helped her put it back on.
“Stay.”
“No.”
We sounded like any lovers, I thought.
The dress was on, her bikini in her hands. It occurred to me that I knew how naked she was under her dress; I knew her nudity.
She unlatched the door. There was no room for anything, no room for a kiss. The train stopped and she stepped out while my hands were still on her hips. I was without a top. People were coming down the stairs from the upper deck. Her eyes gave me a look and the door closed. I turned to the window. She descended the train steps and her friends converged on her, their hands flying. Asking, I supposed, where she had been. She shrugged and they moved away from the train. After a few steps her head jerked back and her eyes searched the train windows for a moment. Then she walked away.
Soap City
Kate E. Conlan
She lies in a colorful city. Her bedroom hovers above the ground letting orange afternoon light in through the huge windows. She is fifteen and enamored with her body. She lies there on her not-too-soft bed and strokes over her skin, underneath the clothes that decorate her. She smoothes fingers over her ribs, up to the curve at the base of her breast, around to her sternum and down to the curving belly and its tunnelled center.
She breathes the late afternoon air and anticipates where her fingers will go with a sort of naïve pleasure. She wants to have something to look back at when she’s older. So her fingers reach lower. The city hums its song as she sings her own.
Afterward, she lets other things into her mind. She forgets the tiny goose bumps that huddle over skin. She thinks about dressing again. She imagines tight blue trousers that hang low on rounded hips. She thinks about over-long-sleeved tops that touch at her chin.
Then she is out in the street looking for you.
“Anya…”
She waits for you to look before she continues.
“There was a girl in here earlier looking for you.”
You bend down and rifle through your bag.
“She was young and very pretty; she had teeth just like a child’s.”
You pull another chair closer and sprawl over it, lithe limbs folding easily over one another.
“Anya!”
“Yes, yes, Magdalene. A girl, young, pretty, teeth like a child.”
“She was looking for you. You promised me that you wouldn’t do that anymore.”
“Promises are like water Magdalene. Just as easily solid and unmoving, as free and flowing. I cannot remember what I said.”
“You did.”
“Promise? Was it a bargain so that I could lick you from top to toe?”
“Anya.” That comes out in a warning tone, yet you aren’t perturbed.
“Or was it a bargain that meant I could be inside you, for a few glorious moments?”
Magdalene turns and walks away. Her heels click on the linoleum floor as your arm muscles flicker while you write. She delivers coffee to the only othe
r person in the house, subtly trying to ignore you and send her fury at the same time. You write her a poem. You haven’t decided yet whether it will torture or soothe Magdalene’s violent soul. The poem floats under your hand waiting for a decision. Just as you think you may have decided on something, you lift your darkened head to see her, the girl, standing before you in tight blue trousers. A line of hip showing, otherwise covered from neck to toe.
You feel stupid that you let the secret of your favorite place away to such a youngster. However, when she sits down next to you and her tight blue trousers slip to reveal even paler hip, you forget about your privacy and start thinking about something else. She is too young really, and you know you won’t let her touch you till she is sixteen, her rule too. She provides a taut sort of pleasure that you will feed later. A taut sort of pleasure that Magdalene might have even thanked the girl for had she known where it came from.
Virginie stands outside a café, for about ten minutes. She spots Anya from across the street. Sees her dark hair flicking over her forehead and curling at the nape of her neck. She sees the worn jeans so soft her fingers have to stray along them. She sees arms that are made for touching, muscles that are there, but just enough. A long neck bends, small breasts point, fingers scribble. Virginie knows that underneath that hair there are eyes thickly lashed, and swooping brows. She knows that there are teeny ears covered in soft down. She knows that there are smooth large lips that could smile easily, but don’t. She knows more, but right now she notices her feet have started walking, so she follows them. They walk inside. They end up right next to Anya, in the late afternoon sun that is brightly reflected around the room from Magdalene and her linoleum floor.
The street is hard under your four A.M. tired toes. The girl, Virginie, traipses beside you, not showing anything other than the pretty outline of her body. You have been thinking all night how amusing her name is. Virginie, it rolls pleasingly from your drunken tongue. You don’t say this to her though. A miracle. She is far too eager to progress to another level with you. She might take your joke as a hint. All night she has been dragging you into hallways and shy corners. She isn’t sixteen for four full days. The waiting it seems is getting to her, now she finds the rule to be arbitrary. At 4:12 A.M. you cannot take her soft body and her smooth kisses any longer. You throw her in a taxi with too much money. She stares at you questioningly from the taxi window, her fingers tapping something out in Morse code, perhaps, on the dirty glass. You progress to Magdalene’s house. Your feet know the way, even if you don’t.
After knocking for too long, you forget where you are. Then you remember, then you forget again. Magdalene comes to the door. She is used to this. Apparently all the time that you have been knocking Magdalene has been doing something else. Her breasts jut pleasantly from a robe. Her face is slightly flushed, as if she were rushing. And her eyes are dilated.
“You want to come in then?” Her voice isn’t mocking. Instead she is realistic, stating what she sees standing slightly slumped on her doorway.
“Yes.” You pull your tired self up and take hold of her fragile body. She leans into you almost automatically, but your perceptive powers were used up on her body twenty seconds earlier. You miss this. The kiss starts just inside the door as her foot closes it. It’s a soft kiss. One that speaks of lips that know each other well.
Soon, though, you are fucking. You find yourself mesmerized by the way her buttocks ripple as you fuck her from behind. Your fake cock going where you cannot. You can see her breasts swinging slightly out of time. They are like a percussionist that has a problem with delay, slow reflexes. You don’t care. The two separate rhythms make good accompaniment for your splendid love. You enjoy how animalistic Magdalene sounds with your cock inside her, your fingers on her clitoris. She makes little grunts, yelps, and murmurs all of which add to the slap your stomach makes against her buttocks. You have a sudden urge to slap her cheeks on the offbeats. You don’t. Her head sways. You enjoy watching her spine flex and bend in front of you. You close your eyes and imagine her cunt is really Virginie’s mouth: soft, petulant, and perfectly warm. You stop, one finger poised over Magdalene’s juddering clitoris, another pressed against the wall within her, measuring the spasms. She pushes against you wildly for a few seconds and then she falls silent. Much to your surprise she comes toward you. She eyes you as she removes the cock that covers your own delicate folds and takes your clitoris into her mouth. You have one moment of fear, you think you’ve said something and maybe those teeth will bite, but then her sucking and her liquid tongue take over. You are hers in the final seconds before you come. But as the first whisper of orgasm hits you, Virginie’s face appears. You try very hard not to say her name. The noise that you make turns Magdalene on so much that she slips several fingers down to her own sex and orgasms again.
Virginie has just celebrated a birthday. It’s the morning and she is slightly unhappy to be walking in such bright sunshine, however the thought of eggs Benedict is helping her along the street. She follows the smell of coffee, shutting her eyes and hoping for the best.
This is how she bumps into you. You can’t believe your fucking luck. You’ve spent the last eight years traveling, having sex with fast women in seedy bars, or with slow ones that want to make you theirs. You’ve ridden scooters and motorcycles, walked till you couldn’t walk anymore, and driven till you made yourself sick. Somehow you got back here. You were heading to a favorite haunt when she placed herself so easily into your arms. There are all the words that people say when they bump into each other when it is socially inappropriate. There is much bowing and scraping. Then she steps back and looks at you. Your name comes out as breath from her lips. Her face doesn’t smile and then she laughs, like glass breaking, you’re not sure if it’s a good sound.
“You,” she says, her fine eyes trembling in the morning light.
“You would appear to be right.” You congratulate yourself on the witty repartee and then think; maybe you should have just shut up. She still takes hold of your arm.
“I’m going for some breakfast, come with me.” And that’s it, you are dragged along by a whirlwind, a dust devil, something that you have never seen before.
There are days between sightings. She turns out to be one of these rare things that you hunt, like blue jelly beans or the last loaf of fresh bread at seven P.M. Sometimes you will see her as the day approaches high noon, her arms waving from a car. Other times you will only see her at night; she will be wearing clothes that seem to want to be worn by her, and her smile and the cigarette that she holds between lips will welcome you. You dance around each other for almost a year. Sightings and visits mediated by months of nothing. You find this lust frustrating, you are the one that is sought, you are the one that hides like a silverfish between book pages. You hate this befuddlement, but what can you do? You can sleep with Magdalene. She likes the fever that your frustration brings, and she doesn’t mind that you want her often and then sometimes not at all. Magdalene is not fussy when it comes to you.
It is high summer; the trees are their greenest green, threatening to wilt without water as most of the flowers have already done. Grass is yellowed, except on the most wasteful gardener’s lawn. It is twilight, which means it is about 9:30 P.M. You are wandering down a stretch of city street, smelling the air, thinking that you would like to eat. And as if she was offering herself up as a morsel, who should appear? Your cunt jumps.
Virginie is out in the summer, letting her skin soak up the warmth, letting it glint in her hair. She is hungry, and a little tired. Her feet touching the last strains of sun-warmed pavement, her hair sticking in curls to the back of her neck. She sees you, and her own cunt glistens moistly all of a sudden. She takes this as a sign and walks toward you. Her feet are firm in their path, her legs know where they want to go. As she reaches you, you reach her, and you kiss at almost ten P.M. in summer, on the street where boys in cars whistle as your breasts jostle for position. She slides up your body and
suddenly her voluptuous frame is wrapped lightly around you. You wonder what she is made of. You didn’t know you were this strong. You imagine that what you can feel on your belly is the heat from her cunt seeping through two people’s clothes.
Getting home takes effort. Her house is two hundred meters up the street. But it seems that fingers and lips, eyes and teeth have all become impatient. She rips open the top of your jeans and slides her hand down to your wet crotch. You almost think that you won’t be standing when you recover from this touch. Yet you are. People stare. Cars almost stop. So you remove her hand and struggle ten feet till you have to cup a spectacular breast in your long fingers. Then once again you are kissing and her cunt is riding your leg. You force yourself away from her, because you know that soon you will both be naked in the coming darkness, helpless to your own desire.
So you grab her hand and run, fleeing it. You are puffed and laughing when you arrive safely inside her doorway. Then you realize that you want her slowly. Revealing small piece by small piece. You lick and bite her earlobes. Tease your teeth down her neck. You stand behind her, fitting her buttocks into the curve of your body. You circle her nipples through the fabric of her clothing and feel her breath sigh up into your hair as you kiss and nibble upon her neck, her shoulders.
One strap, some kisses, observation of the point most recently uncovered, careful consideration of where to go next, debate, and then the next piece of flesh is uncovered. By the time you have both her naked breasts in your hands the fire from her cunt can be felt even when she is not pressed up against you. It is about midnight before you both stand naked against each other. There is some lazy air about you that makes both of you wonder if you can carry on. But you do. Fingers, mouths, eyes; you could make a list of all the parts that long to touch. Instead you just press your dark, sweaty bodies together.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2004 Page 5