BEST LESBIAN EROTICA 2014

Edited by Kathleen Warnock

FOREWORD: EDITING A LIFE

It’s been half a decade since Tristan Taormino and Cleis handed the curating duties of this series on to me. Half a decade, and I’ve read well over five hundred stories, worked with six different judges, corresponded with writers whose work has been chosen (and not) from all over the globe, and spent many a late night line-editing, negotiating changes and sitting with the chosen stories before me like a jigsaw puzzle, fitting them into an order that makes sense, has an energy, an arc to it, and finishing up all the housekeeping tasks: assembling bios, noting which pieces have been published before, collecting contracts and turning it all in. And then I’m done… until it’s time to look at the proof files, then the dummies (as we used to call them in publishing), and set up the first reading, and start visiting my PO box to collect next year’s submissions.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m delineating the parts that make the whole. Sometimes, when I tell people that I edit lesbian erotica, they say: “Well that must be fun!” And I usually respond: “Well, when the stories are good, it is.”

I am of the tribe that can appreciate a well-crafted piece of erotica, then sit there and debate if a word should be in italics, when to use the past perfect tense, or whether correcting a character’s grammar changes the voice of the writer. I can also shout at my computer screen over the words of a would-be writer who can’t tell the difference between “your” and “you’re”; “their,” “there” and “they’re”; or “its” and “it’s.” It can grow into a personal grudge for a story full of spelling and grammatical errors, a story submitted in a funny font or a story that’s by someone writing to “sell” a story rather than tell one.

I relish the exchanges with the writers who are just coming into their own: when I send them an edited version of their story, and break down what I did. Some may disagree with the changes, but others say: I see what you were doing there. I know something about my own work that I didn’t before, and I’m going to use it as I go on.

It’s because I tend to love writers, and want them to hear an encouraging word, want to let them know that someone else believes in their work, or perhaps give them permission to believe in it themselves. Oh sure, there are some crazy mean ones, and people I would prefer not to ride in a car with, but even then, I know that’s the result of the journey they’ve been on, and their work is their way of trying to find some kind of meaning in a life that is sometimes awful or tragic.

I also make it a point to acknowledge people who are already good at what they do. Each year, I seek out the people whose work I published in previous years and ask them to submit something new. It’s a mark of respect, letting them know that their work is something I look forward to reading. Of course that also means every year there is a larger pool of people to disappoint if their work isn’t chosen.

And they sometimes email me afterward, frosty or penitent, snarky or mock-carelessly, asking why their work wasn’t picked. Because no matter how long you’ve been at this, no matter how good you know your own work is, rejection stinks. It’s an arrow in the heart.

What makes it worth it?

I always say: try again next year. It has become my custom to take stories that I particularly like that didn’t get in one year, and throw them into the pool of submissions for the next. What doesn’t suit one volume might suit another. And I’ve been happy to see stories find a place in the series in later editions.

That’s why it’s always a pleasure to sit there puzzling over the final lineup, knowing that the stories chosen will become a new whole. And even though this is a “best of” book, there always seems to be a theme, something that’s on everyone’s mind. This year, there seems to be a lot of reaching, of needing, of people fighting themselves to get what they want or need. Maybe that’s why this foreword is taking the shape it has.

Sometimes I think the writing of erotica is about being afraid of something, and needing to say it, to have it, to own it. No one can define it, except the person at the keyboard, who is by herself, even if her lover is asleep in the next room. No one can know if a story is the one that should be told, or how, except the one telling it.

And then sending it out, hoping to find someone to read it, to listen, to understand.

To me, that’s an honorable life, well lived. That makes it worth it.

Kathleen Warnock

New York City

A GOOD WORKOUT

Sinclair Sexsmith

You check out my ass in the mirror across from mine, and that’s when I know that you want me. I’ve got one of those too-small towels wrapped around my waist and another too-small towel draped over my shoulders, and so do you. The half-dozen girls in the locker room are wearing their towels up over their breasts, with a second one twisted up on their heads. But we don’t need that. Your hair is the same length as mine, cut way above the ears, but yours has that faux-hawk, which tells me you might be a few years younger than I am. Mine I sweep up and over in a wave like I took a palm full of product and ran my hands over my head—which I did.

I wash my hands and head for the steam room, catching your eyes in the mirror for just the quickest inviting smile. I can feel the pulse in my muscles from the 5k run I just finished on the treadmill and the quick set of weights I lifted to keep my shoulders strong and open. My neck feels loose, my fingers feel heavy, my thighs feel solid.

When you chose the treadmill next to mine, I didn’t think much of it. I read you as a guy for a full minute until you stopped walking and started running, and I stole a glance and noticed the smooth girl curve of your chin. Your run was lithe—supple and graceful, full of ease. I struggled with my breath and concentrated on my feet hitting the treadmill. I slowed down and caught my breath, sped up and pushed myself, slowed down again. You stayed steady, one foot in front of the other, sweating but not out of breath, listening to your iPod while I watched a rerun of “Sex and the City” on one of the flat screens.

When I left the weights to head down to the locker room, I thought I felt your eyes on me, but I didn’t turn around to look. You were doing assisted pull-ups by then, your blue basketball shorts bunched by your knees as you knelt on the machine, your biceps popping. I heard you groan only once.

Not that I was watching.

And now I lay myself out on the high bench in the steam room. I’m the only one in here. I unwrap the towel and let my skin sweat the work out of me, feeling my muscles relax, the blood still pumping inside, the tingling sensation that rises after using my body. I breathe in and out, focusing on the place where my body hits the air, the place at my nasal septum where the air is leaving my body, cooler from inside my lungs than it is in the steam. I can’t stay in here too long, but I love how it leaves my body supple. It feels like a cleanse, a good sweat, while working out feels like a release of toxins.

I always have the urge to run my hands over my body, feel my skin slick with sweat, open my legs and let everything get washed by the hot steamy air. I always think of that story from Nancy Friday’s book, My Secret Garden, where two women in the steam room get it on—definitely a story that told me I liked what these women did together a little bit more than I expected.

I let my body sink into the tile bench, and for a short minute all is still; then the door opens, releasing a gush of steam and sucking in cool air in exchange. I don’t have to look up to know it’s you. It seems obvious in this moment that you’d follow me in here. You sit on the bench below mine, and your head is aligned with my knee. You sigh, hands on your thighs, legs parted. I can just make out your shape through the white steam. The back of your neck starts to drip. You take the towel from your shoulders and reveal your chest, small and tight and muscled, your nipples hard and pointed, rosy pink. I have the urge to reach out and twist them, feel them hard between my fingertips. I resist.

When you lean your head back and I feel your hair touch my knee, I take the hint and shift, bending my knee up over the edge of the upper bench. You sigh again, this time more of a groan, and your desire is palpable. Your eyes are closed, but you turn your head and your face is between my thighs. My heart pumps faster in my chest and my stomach rises and falls. You only wait a beat before turning your hips and gripping my inner thighs in each of your hands. You take a long inhale of the wetness that has gathered, my pubic hair thick and wet, already swelling. You take my clit in your mouth without fanfare, just slide it right in and run your tongue along the shaft. Your hands grip harder and your throat opens to take me deeper, your nose buried in my flesh. I know I must smell, musty and thick and sour, and you lap it up with your tongue, your lips pursed, shoved against me hard.

You bring one hand over to cup me underneath and I feel your fingers gently in my crack, palm against my opening, holding my lips like I have balls, high and tight and smooth. I feel your finger find my asshole and shift my body to give my consent, pushing gently against, and you slip inside, just to the first knuckle, easy with all this steam. I grip your hair, because that’s what a faux-hawk is for. Long enough to grab on top and move your mouth around how I want it, where I want to feel it. I fuck your mouth while keeping your head stationary and you work your finger gently and firmly in my tight hole, your tongue wide and throat open. My hips open and I thrust into you, ready to come, thinking about shooting as my clit pulses and contracts, my body shuddering.

I pull your head back as I get supersensitive to the touch and you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, look up at me through the steam.

I grin. I breathe and feel my feet on the floor, get my bearings and don’t waste time. You are on the edge of your seat; I easily grab your waist and flip you around, your ass against me, my arms around you, one hand pushed between your legs and the other twisting those pink nipples. As my fingers find you wet and open you bring my other hand up to your mouth and suck two of them down, tongue swollen, lips wet. I keep my grip around you as I plunge two fingers inside you deep and you groan again, that same release that all those pull-ups had you uttering, the same instinct to buckle and pulse overtaking you. I pull my fingers out slick with your juices and find your clit, start jacking you off, the shaft of it hard and swollen under my fingers, throbbing with my touch.

You quicken under me.

I pull you back against me and our bodies slide against each other, your back against my large chest, my nipples still hard, my stomach against your lower back, your ass against my pelvis. If I had a cock, it’d be in your ass right now, and as soon as I think that I can feel it, you press back against me as if opening up, squirming, and I keep my grip as I reach around you to jack you off. You aren’t easy to get off, I can feel it, that barrier between us, but I can feel how you like to be taken, how you like to be a boy under my touch, how you like to bend over and give it up for me, because that’s how I like it, too.

Our bodies are talking to each other without our heads getting in the way. Our cocks are hard and thrusting, and I am thrusting, and you are thrusting into my palm. Your hand pushing my fingers deeper into your mouth though it is open and you’re breathing around them; I feel your breath cooler than the air. My arms are dripping with sweat and steam; I can feel it rolling down my skin. You groan and I feel the vibration of your tongue on the pads of my fingers. You shudder and your back arches and I hold you up. Your other hand goes down on top of my hand between your legs and you start working it faster and faster, just a little bit up and right of where my fingers were, moving me over, until you stumble forward just a little and I feel your stomach crunch, tighten, your shoulders curl forward, your muscles shaking against me, and you come in my hand with a gush of heat and liquid.

You get ahold of your heavy breathing like you did on the treadmill and come back to a soft even in-and-out, your arms holding you up, bent forward over the low bench. You straighten up your body and lean back against mine for a moment, then grab your towels, wet and heavy on the tile bench of the steam room, and whip around. When your hand grips the handle of the door you catch my glance for a minute and give me that cute, sly boy half-smile, and then you’re gone.

I sit on the lower bench for a moment, feeling my breath again, my body spent and tired and ready to go home. I rinse off quickly in the shower. You’re in the stall two doors down when I enter, but you’ve left by the time I am done.

I do a quick fix to my hair in the mirror over the sink and you’re almost done putting your faux-hawk back up in place behind me, our towels wrapped back around our waists, slung over our shoulders, as if nothing happened, when a woman walks in with a start. “Am I… what are you… wrong… uh?”

We catch each other’s eyes in the mirror. Usually this type of thing gives me butterflies and cause for concern. Usually I am an impostor in women’s bathrooms and locker rooms; usually I am seen as an outsider, potential predator, problem, misfit, outlaw. But here there are two of us, and we just chuckle as she very obviously scans our bodies for signs of hips and breasts and then, embarrassed to be staring, scurries off.

By the time I’m done with my hair and emerge into the changing room where the lockers are, you’re dressed and shoving your gym clothes into a barrel bag. You make a point of coming over to get a tissue right next to where I’m standing, unlocking my locker.

“I don’t usually… uh…” you stammer, not talking to me but talking near me, keeping your chin low, shifting from foot to foot. Your handsome face gives you away: you’re a pretty boy, and you date pretty girls. Not hunky butches.

“I know,” I say. “Me either.”

Your eyes twinkle as you look at me one last time. “See you around,” you toss over your shoulder. “Good workout.”

REUNION AT ST. MARY’S

Catherine Lundoff

Bridget Marie Riordan O’Halloran was depressed. It wasn’t so much that work was insanely stressful, though that was part of it. Or that Vic and all her friends seemed to have forgotten her birthday, though that didn’t help. It was the clipping from the parish newspaper, sent by her mother, that put her over the edge. Sister Agnes Mercy Byrnes had been taken up to Heaven, or so it said. But from what Bridget remembered of her, she was more likely to be torturing the Devil below than hovering on a cloud above.

Where Sister Agnes was didn’t matter as much as the fact that she was gone. It was the passing of an era. Agnes had been the terror, among other things, of Bridget’s high school years. It was hard to forget the hours she had spent over the years masturbating over memories of the spanking the nun had once given her in the principal’s office. Imagining those firm hands on her young flesh gave her a thrill even now. She pictured Sister Agnes pulling down her white virginal panties and… Vic walked in a moment later to find her with her hand between her legs.

“Hi sweetie. Ooh, that looks like fun. What triggered this?” Vic grabbed the little clipping as Bridget jerked her hand out of her pants. Vic gave her a look of pure disbelief. “You’re jilling off to Sister Agnes’s obituary?”

Bridget turned red and tried to come up with a good explanation. Then she gave up and went on the attack instead. “You forgot my birthday! Some girlfriend you are.” She crossed her arms to hide the nipples showing through her shirt. Sister Agnes’s hands had been pretty amazing in that last fantasy.

“I knew you were going to say that,” Vic said with a triumphant grin as she dropped onto the couch. She ran one hand down Bridget’s thigh with a possessive pressure that never failed to make her pay attention. “I’ve got a little surprise for you, babe. Kind of appropriate too, given your new ghoulish hobby. We’re going to your tenth high school reunion. My treat.”

Bridget’s jaw dropped. No way! Sister Julia and Father Williams would run them out of Sacred Heart Parish at the head of a torch-wielding mob. Vic didn’t understand how things worked at a parochial school. But before Bridget could say a word, Vic had her in a lip-lock that soon turned to other things. Once Vic was holding Bridget down and pounding a fist into Bridget’s wet, desperate pussy, going home for the reunion sounded just fine. Besides, it was two months away; she had plenty of time to change Vic’s mind.

But somehow, they never got around to talking about it. Every time she tried, Vic was too busy or was all over her, so she gave up, resigning herself to the trip from hell. It would be worse if they ended up staying with her parents. She hoped her mother wouldn’t say the rosary over them when she thought they were sleeping (again).

Despite her worries, she began to wonder if some of her old friends would be there. Monica had come out after graduation. That was inevitable. If James Dean had ever been reincarnated as a Catholic high school girl, Monica was it. Then there was Mary Eileen. Bridget had never forgotten that sleepover where they all decided to practice kissing. From what she could remember, Mary Eileen wanted to practice a few other things too, but they’d been too scared. As for the rest of the girls who ran around with them, well, if Bridget knew her budding Dykes on Bikes, they were the local chapter by now.

By the time they got ready to leave, Bridget was resigned to the trip. It made things easier that Vic was so obviously up to something. Bridget even resisted taking a peek in the toy bag when they loaded it in the car. No point in spoiling the surprise. At least they were staying at a hotel.

Vic wasn’t letting anything slip. She was too tired for sex that night, which was weird. She didn’t talk much during the drive the next day, which was weirder.

Bridget was getting antsy and it brought out the pushy bottom in her. She wheedled, she whined, she sulked; anything to get Vic to do something with or to her. Anything at all. She squirmed against the fabric of the car seat imagining a few of those things. But for the first time in years, Vic wasn’t going for it. She smiled when Bridget pouted, and stonewalled when she whined, until Bridget thought she’d go nuts before they got there.

Finally, they pulled into the hotel parking lot a few blocks from St. Mary’s. Vic slammed her door and headed over to check them in without a backward glance.

Bridget took this as a good sign. It meant she was well and truly annoyed and in full top mode. Maybe Vic would spank her. She loved that, especially if she had to confess her sins beforehand. Good Catholic girls never forget their early training, as Sister Agnes used to say.

Bridget grinned, her spirits lifting as she unpacked the car.

She hauled the bags into the lobby in time for Vic to get the key, then trailed after her up the stairs to the third floor. Evidently she hadn’t earned the right to use the elevator. She grinned as she gasped for breath. This would be good.

But when they got upstairs and she got the bags lined up the way Vic liked them, her girlfriend disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower, leaving her to squirm on the bed. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she got up and checked the bathroom door. Vic had locked it. Bridget stared at it in disbelief and tried to think of what she’d done that was so awful.

By the time Vic came out, Bridget was feeling well and truly contrite and aching to atone for her sins. Especially since Vic was wearing her favorite suit, the black one that made her look hotter than… well, any other butch Bridget could think of. Vic grinned at her and grabbed one of the bags. Then she gestured at the bathroom, “Go hop in the shower, then put these on when you get out. Don’t put on anything else. The dance is tonight and I’ve got a surprise or two for you.”

Bridget took the bag, wondering if things would be better if she groveled. But Vic didn’t seem interested, so she gave up and sulked her way into the bathroom. Even a halfhearted attempt at masturbating didn’t help. Finally, she gave up and decided that she’d get seriously dolled up for the dance. Then maybe Vic would forgive her.

She was a little more optimistic when she stepped out of the shower. A few moments’ work with a hair dryer, and she was feeling even better. That was when she opened the bag Vic had given her. A puddle of plaid in green and black stared back at her, and she almost shut the bag. No way. She reached into the bag and pulled out a Catholic school uniform. An old St. Mary’s uniform, to be exact.

Under the jumper and white blouse that looked way too small, she found a bra with lace cups and a thong. And a pair of saddle shoes. These made her giggle. This was going to be some surprise after all. She pulled on the underwear, then the blouse. It barely buttoned across her breasts and the cloth gaped every time she took a deep breath, exposing the white lace bra. She pulled on the skirt and realized that it would just about cover her ass. Bridget grinned at her reflection in the mirror and grabbed her makeup.

A few moments later, a vision that would have made Sister Agnes turn over in her grave sauntered out of the bathroom to Vic’s appreciative whistle. Bridget had made up her lips in a crimson that clashed violently with her red hair, then applied glowing blue eyeshadow from her lashes to her eyebrows. Her hair was done up in multiple little ponytails, just the sort of thing she might have tried in high school if she’d had the nerve.

Vic came over for an appreciative, giggly kiss. She ran one hand under the skirt and groped Bridget’s ass in the thong just enough to get her attention before she pulled away. Then she grabbed a small bag from the bed. “C’mon let’s go. Some folks are waiting for us. Oh wait, wear this.” She handed Bridget a St. Mary’s blazer.

Bridget gaped at it. “Where did you find all this stuff? Some kind of Sacred Heart garage sale or something?”

“I had help. Now, c’mon babe. We want to get there early. I hear they’re doing dinner first.”

“Oh yum, church suppers. I can’t wait.” Bridget rolled her eyes and tugged on the blazer. Vic was already holding the door open and ushering her out. Well, maybe the surprise would come afterward. Bridget got just a bit wetter thinking about all the possibilities.

By the time they pulled up in front of St. Mary’s, the car seat was getting damp under her. Not that Vic seemed to notice. She just looked as cool as could be as she pulled into the lot and came around to open Bridget’s door. Bridget got out carefully, trying to hold the minuscule plaid skirt down so it sort of covered her butt. Vic watched her with a dangerous smile and leaned in close to whisper, “I’m planning on seeing a lot more of your ass and pussy tonight than that. But it’s a start.”

Bridget met her eyes and shivered. She’d been aching to be touched ever since her shower and that only made it worse. She wondered what it would take to get Vic to take her in the bathroom or maybe the girls’ locker room. She’d always had a fantasy about that, one that involved the entire girls’ field hockey team.

They passed under a big banner and some streamers welcoming them to the reunion. Bridget forced herself not to groan. Crepe paper. Did it get any cheesier than that? There was Betty Crane, waving at her from a registration table crowded with name tags. Bridget didn’t recognize the woman next to her, or the guy hovering nearby, but she suspected she’d hear all about it when they got a bit closer. And she was willing to bet that no one would ask a thing about Vic.

Sure enough, Father William and Sister Julia were fussing with more crepe paper and balloons behind the table and carefully ignoring them. Bridget tugged the jacket closed over her gaping white blouse and grabbed Vic’s hand. Time to get the evening’s ostracism underway. “Hi Betty!” she chirped when they stopped in front of the table. “You look great.” She grinned down at her least favorite former classmate and nearly collapsed laughing when she saw the look on her face.

“Hi Bridget. You look… umm… healthy. Let me introduce you to my husband.” Betty grabbed for the bored-looking man lurking by the bulletin boards. He looked Bridget over and leered, but only a little, which was better than she expected of any guy who’d marry Betty.

Vic stepped between the two of them, making it clear that she wasn’t going to put up with much crap. Bridget watched Betty’s uptight mouth tense as Vic reached out to shake her hand. She wondered if the reunion chair was wiping her hand off on her skirt under the table. At least the husband was polite about it.

A few other classmates came up behind them, and they were able to move on before Bridget gave Betty a piece of her mind. Maybe, she thought, as Vic towed her away, tonight would be a good night to tell Father William who had tried to out a third of the class with anonymous notes their senior year. She’d always suspected it was Betty, partially because a lot of the accusations had been wrong.

But once they walked inside, she forgot about her former foe. There was Monica waving at them from a side table, black hair cut short and spiky, black leather jacket draped on the back of her chair. There was another woman with her who looked familiar too. It took Bridget a full minute to recognize Mary Eileen. Who else would wear an outfit that looked suspiciously like an updated version of a field hockey uniform? Bridget was giggling when they sat down next to them. A few more friends from the old days and their girlfriends straggled in after that so it made for a full table.

In the end, there were eight of them, including almost every girl that Bridget ever wondered about when they were in school: Monica, Mary Eileen, Sharon, Elena, Kate, plus Vic and Kate’s girlfriend Pam. She wondered what Sister Agnes would make of them now, but she thought she knew the answer to that one. Dinner was better than she expected, and everyone at the table was being nice to Vic. Especially since it turned out that Vic seemed to know Monica and Elena from some email list, which was news to Bridget.

But apart from that, Bridget was still waiting to be surprised. Sure, Vic’s hand was resting on her thigh under the table, but it wasn’t working its way up like she expected. She wondered if anyone would notice if she ducked under the table and went down on her girlfriend. She wriggled impatiently.

Vic leaned over to whisper, “Meet me in the girl’s locker room in ten minutes.” Then she took off with Monica.

Bridget watched them walk away like a lost puppy. A wet, empty puppy whose thong was working its way up into places that wanted to be full of other things. Ten minutes had never taken so long, but she wanted to stay on Vic’s good side so she didn’t get up until nine and one half minutes after Vic and Monica left.

She caught Mary Eileen’s knowing smile from the corner of her eye and pulled her friend’s hair lightly as she walked past, for old times’ sake. Then she made herself walk across the gym at a slow, ladylike pace toward the locker rooms, occasionally waving to an old schoolmate who wasn’t too appalled to acknowledge her.

Eventually, she made it to the locker room door. She stopped in front of it, letting her fantasies run wild. She slipped the blazer off her shoulders and unbuttoned her blouse an extra button. Then she walked in, pussy muscles clenched with anticipation.

The second she walked in, someone dropped a bag over her head. Her arms were held behind her back, and she was marched over to what felt like a post. She could feel her hands being securely fastened behind her around the post while someone gave her nipple a wicked pinch.

Bridget whimpered happily and spread her legs, the cheerful grin on her face hidden by the black bag. A sharp slap with something—a ruler?—on her bare thigh made the grin go away. Rough hands tugged off the bag leaving her face-to-face with Monica. Who kissed her, hard.

Uh-oh. Hope Vic doesn’t see this. Monica’s hand was squeezing her tit now too, with enough pressure to make her yelp around Monica’s tongue in her mouth. Then Monica let go of her boob and stuck her hand between Bridget’s legs, driving her fingers up around the thong until Bridget was gasping for air. “You were always such a little slut, Bridge. Now lick my fingers off.” Monica added that last command right after she pulled her fingers out of Bridget’s soaking pussy.

“I remember,” Monica purred as she watched Bridget carefully suck off each finger on her right hand, “how you were always hanging out here after field hockey practice. What were you hoping for back then, Bridge?”

Bridget responded with an incoherent gurgle. How had Monica known? Monica wasn’t telling, but she was pulling a largish knife out of her back pocket. She ran the blade down Bridget’s ample cleavage and smiled as she squirmed. Bridget was wild eyed; where was Vic? Surely she hadn’t left her alone with this crazy woman?

“Well, don’t carve her up before I’ve had any,” Mary Eileen said as she swept into the locker room, giving Bridget an evil grin. She leaned over and bit Bridget’s nipple through the lace of her bra. Bridget yelped. Mary Eileen glanced at Monica. “You bring the ruler? Excellent. I’ve got my old field hockey stick too.”

Bridget’s eyes bulged. There was no way that Mary Eileen was going to follow through on that unspoken threat. Mary Eileen pulled a condom out of a bag and opened the package. Then she stretched it over the handle of the stick. She looked up and met Bridget’s wide-eyed stare. “Oh, don’t tell us you didn’t dream about this back in the day, sweetie. I remember you practically humping Monica in her uniform when you had a few beers.”

So could Bridget. Who could help it? Monica had been so hot. Come to think of it, so had Mary Eileen. And now she was going to get some of her favorite fantasies fulfilled. At least she hoped they were still favorites. She hadn’t thought about the field hockey team in quite a few years, not since Vic came along. She closed her eyes and pictured Vic as the team goalie and a thin line of wetness ran down her thigh.

“I’d put that on her now,” Mary Eileen murmured to Monica as she ran a hand up Bridget’s thigh and stuck two of her fingers inside her, then pulled them out. “I’m guessing our little Bridget’s a shrieker, aren’t you, sweetie?”

Bridget nodded like her head was on strings. Monica reached into a bag and came back with a thick, silky scarf in her hands. She covered Bridget’s mouth and tied the scarf behind her head with deft precision. Then she pulled up Bridget’s skirt and cut the thong off her. Bridget moaned, hoping that might be enough to get one of them to take her. She had never felt so empty.

Instead, Monica chuckled in Bridget’s ear before running her tongue all the way down to her cleavage. She unfastened the bra and pulled it down so Bridget’s breasts were exposed. Bridget started breathing faster. This was just like her field hockey fantasy. Vic had to be somewhere nearby, planning this whole thing. She was the only one Bridget had ever told about this. She squirmed happily. This was going to be the best belated birthday ever.

The door swung open as Mary Eileen braced the hockey stick on the floor and started working the edge of the handle up into Bridget’s pussy. The smooth hardness of it stretched her out enough that she was making a whole series of protesting noises as the rest of their friends walked in. Elena gave Bridget a nasty grin as she sauntered up. “Our little hockey slut is finally getting her wish, huh?” She reached around Bridget and slipped a finger up Bridget’s ass just as Mary Eileen finally got the stick at a good angle. Elena leaned in and bit down on the tender skin over Bridget’s collarbone.

Bridget writhed, every motion driving the stick a little farther inside her. Elena was giving her one hell of a hickey from the feel of things. She had also dropped her free hand to Bridget’s clit. The others were either watching or starting to entertain themselves; Kate’s girlfriend already had her shirt off and Kate stretched out on one of the locker room benches. Bridget found herself imagining Sister Agnes watching and surprised herself by coming with a muffled yell.

Elena grinned and pushed her legs a little farther apart. Then she twisted the hockey stick a little into her. It was too big to fit much more than the end, but that wasn’t stopping her from trying. Bridget opened her eyes at the sound of a camera click. Monica was taking pictures of them. Elena leaned in close to Bridget’s face and grinned at the camera while she pinched Bridget’s nipples completely erect. Monica zoomed in on a close-up of the stick as Bridget wailed through the gag.

The door swung open behind Monica and Bridget gasped as a nun entered. Elena stepped away, an evil grin on her face. Bridget braced herself for outraged cries and threats to call the police. Instead the nun looked her straight in the eye and walked over, pulling a ruler out of her sleeve as she approached. Bridget gurgled behind the gag, gasping in shock at the sight of Vic in full Catholic drag, rosary and all.

She was in full character too. She looked at Bridget sternly and asked in a voice slightly deeper than her normal one, “Have you been tempting these innocents into sin? Have you? Have you exposed yourself in order to make your schoolmates think lustful thoughts?” Vic frowned fiercely as Bridget tried to look innocent.

Whack! The ruler landed on her bare thigh. Bridget yelled through the gag. Vic pulled the hockey stick away from her pussy. “I still can’t hear you, Miss O’Halloran. Perhaps this will help loosen your tongue.” Vic yanked off her rosary and began stuffing it up into Bridget’s soaking wet slit. When she had gotten as many beads inside her as she could fit, Vic found a stray length to stuff up her ass. Bridget could feel the crucifix dangling between her thighs, and it made her feel incredibly sacrilegious.

It also made her come again, so hard she would have dropped to the floor if her bound hands weren’t holding her up. “Did I give you permission to indulge in that disgusting behavior?” Vic hissed as the ruler met the exposed flesh of Bridget’s ass. Her eyelids flew open in time to see Sharon go down on Mary Eileen while Monica slid a dildo into a harness. Vic twisted the rosary inside her and rubbed one of the dangling beads against her clit while she watched them. Whenever she felt Bridget wasn’t paying enough attention, she brought the ruler down on her ass or thighs.

Bridget gulped the air like it was water, her knees trembling. The pressure on her clit was unrelenting as she watched Sharon come, face still pressed into Mary Eileen’s pussy. Bridget joined her a second later, shaking so hard that Vic had to catch her. Vic untied her then and pulled the gag off. Then she yanked the rosary out. “I believe that you need to do some penance, young lady.” She pressed down on Bridget’s shoulders and Bridget dropped to her knees on the locker room floor.

For a minute, she pretended she was going down on Sister Agnes. She closed her eyes, imagining the spanking she’d have gotten. A sharp slap like the one she’d been thinking about cracked across her ass. She tried to glance around to see whom the hand belonged to, only to have Vic hold her head in place and order her to lick harder.

Whoever it was that was spanking her was a pro. A firm hand came down over and over until Bridget’s was hot and her thighs were soaked. Then Bridget felt the pressure of a dildo against her asshole. Monica. It had to be Monica. She was going to get Vic and Monica at the same time? This was the best birthday ever.

She licked Vic as Monica stretched her out and shoved her way inside. Vic came then, hands buried in Bridget’s hair, legs shaking around her ears. Monica worked the dildo all the way inside her and began riding her, driving her face into Vic with each thrust. Bridget tried to make her tongue rigid, using it to fuck Vic until Vic came again.

Monica was groaning now and Bridget could feel her playing with herself. Monica came before she did, collapsing on Bridget’s back with a shuddering yell as Bridget’s legs trembled from her own orgasm. She shook under Monica’s body for another minute or two, then started laughing. She grinned up at Vic from the floor and said, “Should I say ten Hail Marys as penance, Sister?”

Vic gave her a stern frown. “Make it twenty and I want to hear every one of them, young lady.” Bridget dropped back onto her knees and clasped her hands, beginning the litany and being sure to work in a new section thanking the Virgin for the field hockey team.

HEY, STRANGER

Diana Cage

Atlanta in the spring smelled like wet leaves, different from Brooklyn, where Sabina had lived until a few months ago, different from San Diego where she grew up. The cleanness appealed to her; the stately homes in their neighborhood sported neat lawns dotted with azalea bushes and dogwood trees, like everything she’d ever seen in Better Homes and Gardens. On nights when their small, hot apartment felt more punishing than cozy, she’d take a walk through the area, breathing in the boring middle-classness of it all, until she felt glad again for her own cramped, complicated life.

She and Cass had found a nice rhythm: they never fought, they fucked twice a week, they made dinner. Things were very good, which is why she’d allowed herself to be drawn down to Atlanta, to the “dirty South,” as Cass called it, though Atlanta felt much less dirty than where she’d come from. Brooklyn, which smelled like hot trash and sewage and sounded like car horns and people yelling, seemed a whole lot dirtier. They’d spent a summer there, living in Sabina’s apartment a half mile from the Brooklyn Museum, wanting every day to leave the house in time to visit the museum, and every day being sucked back into the bed, into the sex they couldn’t stop having, into each other’s bodies and countless orgasms.

It was only the last week, right before Cass returned to Atlanta to teach, when they’d finally made it. At 4:00 p.m., an hour before closing time, they dragged themselves to the museum’s Sackler Center for Feminist Art in order to see The Dinner Party, Judy Chicago’s iconic art installation. The compulsion to visit what was arguably the most famous and most profoundly’70s piece of second-wave feminist art had started as a private joke. Cassie, the stoic art history professor who almost never relaxed, had little interest in art from that period. She dismissed it, rolling her eyes: “So the plates looked like pussies, okay, I get it.” But each day that they fucked through visiting hours, the plan grew into something more compelling, until one day, there they were finally standing in front of it, postcoital and spacy, Sabina wearing her T-shirt inside out.

For at least ten minutes, they just stared. They stood next to each other and took in the massive ceremonial banquet table set for a seemingly random assortment of important historical female figures. Even Cassie felt it. They were into it deep, devouring the vulvar plates, the gold chalices, the embroidery. Sabina felt overwhelmed by sex and women and the goddamn Primordial Goddess. She wanted to throw Cassie down on the table, knocking Isis, Hatshepsut and every other cunt out of the way and fuck like maenads.

That was a year ago. In that year she had moved to Atlanta, embraced her inner domestic-partner-goddess and become a full-time writer who kept the home, planned the meals and generally did all the work you’d traditionally assign the wife. She liked it. She wasn’t bored. She cooked impressive recipes and plated them with an alacrity she gleaned from reading food blogs. Her novel was coming along, albeit slowly, and somewhere in the back of her mind she was considering getting pregnant. Sometimes she’d stare at her body in the mirrors at the gym, picturing what she’d look like with a giant belly. She was into it.

Sabina was standing in the laundry room of their apartment complex, flipping through a copy of Entertainment Weekly, waiting for her underwear to dry. Her heavy blonde hair was piled on top of her head, the mass secured haphazardly with a single elastic. Her white T-shirt came to the bottom of her cutoffs, the V-neck dipping low between her small breasts. Her muscular legs were sweaty, but shaved smooth and clean, and her flip-flops were decorated with gaudy plastic flowers. The look she was going for was Brigitte Bardot in And God Created Woman but in reality, it was probably a little more Daisy Duke if she’d gotten older and been through a divorce and maybe rehab. She was a little tipsy, having drunk most of a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc over the course of the afternoon, and had decided it was a good time to take a break and finish the laundry.

The magazine was boring, but she continued to skim it, stopping on the “Who Wore It Best” spreads and fantasizing about celebrities’ naked bodies. What do famous people do in bed? she wondered. Do they fuck in real life like they do in movies? She liked to guess which celebs were actually queer. She’d been thinking about sex nonstop since summer started. Her head was full of wild ideas, and there was a near-constant buzz between her legs. Cassie wouldn’t be back for months, having accepted a summer-long research fellowship in Boston. She was studying neo-classical nudes in some boring archive, and Sabina was left all alone to deal with her insistent, unrelenting thrum. She wanted to finish her book over the summer, she wanted to make Cass proud, but mostly she’d been looking at the basest Internet porn she could find and watching episode after episode of trashy cable shows. Cass would have been appalled.

“Hey, stranger!” The greeting startled her out of her celebrity fuck fantasies and back into the reality of the dingy laundry room. Euclid Court, the name of their apartment complex, made Sabina think of an arcane feudal system where knights swore oaths of fealty to princesses, and kings went around raping maidens. In reality, it was a slightly rundown subdivision with an inordinate number of gay tenants. There were Pride flags in the laundry room and Steve, the tanned, shirtless building super, played club music while he replaced the belt on a broken dryer. It was a little like doing laundry on Fire Island. Sabina loved it and often hung out waiting for the clothes to dry, even though she was steps from her apartment.

“Long time no see,” said Syd.

Sabina took in the lanky frame and long brown hair, the untucked, checked shirt, baggy jeans, the nearly six feet of sex that was her ex-girlfriend and said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Sabina was genuinely startled. It made no sense for Syd, who lived six hours away in Durham, to suddenly appear. She closed the magazine and put her hands on her hips. “So, this is awkward,” she said.

“Relax, Peaches,” Syd said. “I took a job in Atlanta for the summer.”

“Doing what?” demanded Sabina.

“Working for CNN. Doing stuff. Calm down. I got in touch with Veronica, and she told me where you live. I left you a voice mail. You still never check your phone.”

Veronica was Syd and Sabina’s mutual friend or mutual ex-lover, depending on how you looked at it. They’d had a few threeways, a lot of fights, and Sabina made a mental note to ask Veronica what the fuck her problem was. Most people are more formal about dropping in on someone, but Syd was generally uninterested in boundaries and privacy. She preferred living communally; she loved renting rooms in big punk houses, rock-star palaces full of artists and addicts. The kind of place where the house has a name, like a ship. She bristled at anything that felt like normalcy.

The buzz from the dryer was painfully loud. Sabina winced. “I have to finish what I’m doing,” she said. “Maybe we can get together sometime?”

“What about now?” was Syd’s answer. “What are you doing now?”

Steve looked up from his dryer project with a raised eyebrow. Sabina shot him a look and took a step back. She felt like she was on the edge of something big. Syd stepped closer and pulled the elastic band from Sabina’s hair. It tumbled down around her face.

“Your hair is so long now. You finally let it grow.”

Sabina ignored her comment. “There’s no food in the house,” she said. “I haven’t shopped or anything. Tomorrow might be a better time to hang out.” Syd’s narrow frame and sharp jawline reminded her of a Romaine Brooks portrait, maybe Peter, a Young English Girl or the Lady Troubridge one. Cass had taught her about Romaine Brooks. She thought silently about the trouble she was about to let happen, calculated how much it would affect her life and decided to charge ahead.

“How about I go pick up some food and some wine and come back in a bit? We can watch a movie. I haven’t seen you in forever, Sabina. It’s so good to see your face.”

“Fine,” Sabina said, mustering as much nonchalance as she could. “See you in a bit.” Sabina tied her hair back up, perched the full basket of laundry on her hip and headed back inside.

Syd’s beauty stemmed at least partially from being untethered and easygoing. She drove an old van and was not above sleeping in it. She lived in whatever way she wanted to and didn’t worry about what came next. Sabina stood in front of the bathroom mirror. The bathroom felt like neutral space; like unclaimed territory. She brushed her teeth. She put on lipstick. She put on perfume and then more perfume. She really wanted to fuck Syd, there was no denying it. And she was going to do it, so she may as well stop pretending she didn’t know what kind of trouble she had just invited over. Syd knew Cass was gone, that was obvious. Everything was obvious.

It was okay, she thought. “This is okay,” she said out loud. She was a grown woman and people cheat sometimes. It happens. She felt like an explorer; like a slutty lesbian version of Jacques Cousteau. Like she was entering new territory. It was exciting. She fingered her pussy through the denim of her shorts and felt the damp heat. Twenty minutes later she’d put the laundry away, wiped off her lipstick and put it on again, combed her hair and braided it and then unbraided it. Then she vacuumed the floor, mopped, and dusted whatever surfaces were in easy reach. “Jesus Christ,” she thought. “What am I doing?” Then the doorbell rang and her nervousness went away. She opened the door to find Syd with a pizza in one hand and a liter of red wine in the other. It was not a bad sight at all.

Syd set the bounty on the table and pushed Sabina onto the couch. Sabina nervously tried to tie her hair back up, but Syd grabbed her wrist and said, “Leave it.” They stared at each other for a few minutes, not kissing, faces close but not touching. Sabina’s insides turned warm and liquidy.

“So your girlfriend is out of town, huh?” Syd said with a smirk.

“Are we in a Bruce Springsteen song?” Sabina shot back. “Are we in high school? Let’s just fuck.”

The night they’d first met, Sabina had no idea she was being seduced. Syd moved with such incredible, calm, embodied assuredness it seemed as if she was just being nice, just being friendly and extra attentive. Sabina thought she was simply making a new friend, until the very moment Syd’s tongue was in her mouth.

They were at a bar in Durham. Sabina was on a mini-tour with four other writers, the Porn Tour, they’d dubbed it, each of them reading material about whoever they’d fucked the night before. Durham was the last stop, and Syd had been her last story. She wrote it all down the next morning, her prose graphic by even the Tour’s standards. The two of them managed to extend what should have been a one-night stand into a tumultuous eight months of long-distance torture, but eventually the distance proved fatal. Sabina needed a lover who slept in her bed each night, who stayed put. She was less wild than her writing.

Syd kissed her, and Sabina felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She kissed back, leaning in, pushing her face against Syd’s. Her body felt electric. It was the hottest, most exciting feeling she’d had in what felt like forever. She wanted everything now, in this moment, she didn’t want to wait. She didn’t need warming up; she was already there. She scrabbled at Syd’s clothes, wanting her naked, wanting them both naked. Syd smelled like sandalwood soap and the herbal-scented pomade Sabina remembered. She felt a familiar pull in her cunt. It was so strong it eclipsed everything else.

“Hey, Sabina, slow down,” Syd said. She leaned back against the couch teasingly, knowing the effect she had on Sabina. Knowing how good she was at making her want it.

“Sit still,” said Syd. “Don’t move.”

Sabina leaned back in a huff. She felt irritated and childish; she was the one taking risks after all. She didn’t want to go slowly. Her cunt felt like a gaping maw, like a sheela na gig. She wanted to be stuffed full; she wanted to fuck until the constant throb went away.

Syd took out a pocketknife and opened it carefully. “You have too many clothes on,” she explained.

“This is a new trick,” Sabina said.

“I’m just going to undress you a little bit,” Syd told her. She placed the knife at the bottom of the neckline of Sabina’s T-shirt and made a small cut. She then set the knife on the couch carefully, the blade open, next to Sabina’s thigh, and began to pull at the edges of the cut, tearing it apart. The material gave quickly, and with a ripping sound, Sabina’s shirt quickly split down the front, nearly to her navel. Her small breasts were exposed, her nipples dark and hard. “Beautiful,” muttered Syd, “Fucking gorgeous.”

Sabina reached down and ripped the material the rest of the way, cleaving the shirt in two and peeling it backward off her small shoulders. She picked up the knife and ran the flat side of the blade across her nipples while Syd watched, mesmerized. Then she dropped it on the floor, stood up, and peeled off her shorts.

“Oh fuck,” said Syd, staring. She leaned back in an attempt to mask her need, stroking her crotch with one hand, reaching for Sabina with the other. “You’re still a bitch, Sabina,” Syd said. “You still never let anyone else drive, do you?”

Sabina smiled, staring back at Syd. Everything was soft focus and bright like the way heaven always looks in Sophia Coppola films.

“Mmmm. Come over here.” Syd unbuckled her belt and pushed her jeans down around her hips in the same deft move.

Sabina leaned down, ran her hands across Syd’s chest and down her arms before kneeling between her legs and pressing her face into Syd’s damp cunt. Sabina licked Syd, small licks at first, testing the waters, just to see how far she was going to get. When Syd groaned and leaned back into the couch, she took the hint. Syd spread her legs wider, and pressed Sabina’s head against her crotch, moving her this way and that, positioning her. Forcing her playfully to stay on her knees, demanding that Sabina make her come.

Sabina brought Syd to the very edge with her mouth, feeling her clit tighten and grow and Syd’s hips press harder into her face. She stopped then, with Syd so close, and whispered, “I want you to come inside me.”

She climbed up onto the couch, straddling Syd’s lap, her cunt wide open and ready for fingers. Syd thrust three fingers inside her, then four, stretching her open, pushing, then all of them. Her fist slipped into Sabina’s cunt, filling her as full as she could get. They fucked like that, leaning into each other, slippery and groaning on the leather couch, rocking back and forth in a crazy rhythm. Sabina gasped and yelled, demanding more, harder. They held on to each other tightly, pulling and pushing, slippery and hot and fast until they both came in a heated, sweaty, screaming rush.

After a long while, Syd slipped her hand free, her fingers slick and sticky. She looked at Sabina’s face and her own face showed first a tight twinge of need, and then happy satedness.

Slowly, slowly, gently they peeled their bodies apart. Sabina feeling slightly broken open, and Syd seeming elated and renewed.

Sabina looked around, still feeling like an explorer, like she was observing her own life. She looked at her lover’s body, and at her girlfriend’s things littering the small apartment, and she knew clearly there was no fixing this. She pressed her forehead to Syd’s chest and sighed.

BIG LESBO CUPCAKERY

D. L. King

The kid, all three feet of him, was standing with his mouth open, lips pressed against the glass, the tip of his tongue moving forward and back, touching the glass in a staccato rhythm. What was that? I mean really, how do people think it’s okay to let their kids do something like that?

Forget that it was going to be the fourth time I had cleaned the display case glass and it was only 10:30. But, hell, how does his mother know I’ve cleaned the glass? He could be contracting Ebola while she tried to decide between the raspberry and the marshmallow. Jesus.

My partner Fran and I had opened Spun Sugar and Dandelion Fluff last September and now, not quite a year later, I can say we may have made a success of it. Yes, I know, but I’m not a very decisive person, as a rule. Anyone who knows me knows that. I’m not much of a baker, either. Fran is the baker. And I’m not that great at naming things. Like the shop: I wanted to call it Big Lesbo Cupcakery. I liked it. It made sense. And there was an established precedent, sort of, with Big Gay Ice Cream, but Fran nixed the idea. I would have been willing to go with Little Lesbo Cupcakery, but she said no.

So, I wait on customers, do the books and clean the display case—a lot.

The mother of the little bastard pointed and said, “What’s that one like?” It was a yellow cake with an unassuming light-golden-brown frosting.

“That’s ginger and honey. It’s spicy.” I looked at the kid again. “It’s an adult flavor. Not something most children like.”

“Oh, these aren’t for him, not at these prices. He’s perfectly happy with Entenmanns.” She continued to browse.

Here’s how the whole thing started: I’d fallen in love with red velvet cake, specifically the red velvet cake from a little bakery in Brooklyn, close to where I worked. I’d been bringing it home every few weeks when I finally asked Fran if she’d ever made it. She said she hadn’t, so we decided to try our hand at cupcakes. I began researching recipes and found that red velvet cake was a very odd cake with very odd ingredients. No wonder I liked it. I found a TV chef’s recipe that felt right to me and gave it to Fran. That, actually, was my whole contribution—finding the recipe. That, and commenting on the finished product. Neither of us had any idea what to expect, but the cupcakes turned out to be the best I’ve had—before or since.

Evidently, Fran thought I wasn’t pulling my weight, that I should have done more to help, or something. Why she thought that (if she really did), I’ve no idea. She’s always telling me to get out of the kitchen. In any case, she had my punishment all set up for me that night.

“Ever hear of figging, my dear?” she said, after she had me spread and tied to our bed, ass up.

I turned my head to look at her. She was carving something with a knife. It looked like wet wood and she seemed to be whittling it into a stake. “No, does it have something to do with vampires?” She smacked my ass.

“No. It has to do with naughty little English schoolgirls in the eighteen-hundreds.”

That’s one of the things I like so much about Fran. She’s really smart and gets caught up in research to find new and unusual forms of punishment for me. She’s totally into collecting all the required paraphernalia and experimenting on me to find out what works best. So, yay for me!

“Figging,” she said “involves fresh ginger root and spanking.”

“Mmm, I like spanking,” I said, wiggling my ass from side to side. She smacked it again and then I felt her opening up the crack of my ass and sliding something wet and cool up and down. She slowly forced it into my asshole, twisting and gently pushing. “Hey, where’s the lube?” I asked.

“No lube. There’s no lube with figging. Don’t be a baby; it’s really very small,” she said as she continued to push the cold, wet root into my anus. “There would be no point to this if you used lube. There, it’s in. See, that wasn’t so bad.”

“Yeah, I can hardly feel it. What was the point again?”

“Just wait.”

And just about then is when the burning began. It was exquisitely sharp and stung the way your skin can sting when it’s really, really cold and you run hot water over it. She could see me clenching and unclenching my ass so she knew it had started to work.

“In the boarding schools, the headmasters would do this to the really bad girls and then cane them. I thought I’d just spank you tonight. It’s more intimate that way.”

She spanked me a few times, transferring the pain from my asshole to my cheeks, which sort of defeated the whole purpose of the ginger, I thought. And I told her so when she asked me how it felt.

“Oh, well I can fix that,” she said, gently stroking my labia with the fingers of the hand that she’d used to peel the ginger, fingers coated with ginger-root juice. She rimmed my cunt before sinking a finger inside me and using another finger to rim my clit. Once the little whimpering noises began, she started spanking me again.

Now, besides my ass clenching around the ginger, my cunt was clenching around her finger. I tried rubbing my mound against the bed, but her fingers never strayed. It wasn’t until I began gasping that she placed her index finger directly on my clit, and I popped like a shaken bottle of champagne. She removed the tapered root from my ass, and then her fingers from my cunt, and almost immediately the burning began to subside.

“Wow, that stuff is unbelievable,” I said. And that incident is why we decided to develop a ginger cupcake. The honey was added later—to the cupcake, not me. The flavors complement each other well. It’s a spicy-sweet treat.

We started commemorating other memorable scenes, like the time she stuffed a giant Atomic Fireball in my mouth and then used duct tape to keep it in. That particular cupcake is a cinnamon-flavored yellow cake with the most amazing frosting. The frosting doesn’t have anything to do with sex, other than it’s an orgasm in your mouth. I never even thought of combining chocolate and cinnamon until I tasted a piece of cinnamon chocolate in a high-end box of candy.

I just have to say, though, in case you feel like trying it; it’s almost impossible to stay gagged with a Fireball for long. Another fun thing to do is Red Hots. Have you ever had Red Hots up the twat? They don’t really do much. But, if your girlfriend chews them up, then paints your clit with the juices, it isn’t bad.

We have a cinnamon cupcake that has a French vanilla frosting decorated with mini-heart-shaped Red Hots.

Cinnamon isn’t bad, but it isn’t as good as peppermint oil when Fran really wants to get my attention. Last Valentine’s Day, I came home from work to find rose petals scattered on the floor, leading down the hall to the bathroom. I opened the door and she was waiting for me, a bath drawn, with more rose petals floating in the water and candles burning around the edges. It had to be the most romantic thing I’d ever seen and she’d done it for me.

She started a mix of jazz on the iPod and helped me off with my clothes and into the bath. Soon she’d stripped down and joined me. She had me lie back against her, her legs wrapped around mine, feet on the inside, trapping my legs open. She said she wanted to bathe me and pamper me before dinner.

She soaped up her hands and ran them over my neck, kneading the sore muscles. It was absolute heaven. Her soapy hands met at my neck and slid their way down my chest, separating to smooth and squeeze my breasts, pinching and kneading my nipples, making my skin come alive. She slid her hands to the sides and soaped my underarms before letting her fingers caress and knead the muscles in my arms, all the way down to my fingers. I was so relaxed, I could have fallen asleep against her, in the bath.

But she had other ideas. “Stand up for me,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“Because I can’t adequately get to the bottom half of you while you’re sitting on your ass. All right, don’t stand up, just kneel up, that’ll probably work.”

I did as she asked and she replenished the soap in her hands and caressed and kneaded the cheeks of my ass, running her fingers around the tops of my thighs and into the crease between my sex and my legs. It was all so languorously sweet. I had my hands against the front of the tub, bracing myself, wishing she’d delve in for the kill and I began to whimper.

“What’s the matter, baby? Do you want something?” she teased.

“Yes, please,” I moaned. “Put your fingers in me. You’re driving me crazy.”

“All you had to do was ask, lover.”

She reached for the soap to slick her hands and smoothed them through the hair above my opening, sliding them down farther, squeezing and rubbing my labia, running her hands up and down, caressing the silky tissues, before sliding two fingers inside me and using her thumb and forefinger to squeeze my clit, hard. Just as I started to convulse in the most delicious orgasm, the burn set in. But it was too late to worry about; I was coming and my brain lost all cohesive thought. I could feel her fingers stroking away inside me as I continued to vibrate with an orgasm that just wouldn’t stop.

When the aftershocks began to subside, she withdrew her hands and scraped her nails over my vulva. “That was lovely, sweetie. How do you feel?”

I sat back down and started to curl up against her when I noticed the insistent burn deep inside, and the slightly less insistent burning of my clit. Quickly, I grabbed my clit, under the water, and started massaging it. “What—?”

“Just a little peppermint oil shower gel,” she said, turning my face to her and kissing me.

My clit stopped burning almost immediately, once the soap had been rinsed off, but the walls of my vagina continued to burn throughout dinner. The food was marvelous but I couldn’t stop rocking and grinding my cunt against the chair.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll make it all better after dinner, or at least I’ll scratch your itch.”

So yes, we do have a peppermint cupcake. It was a big seller at Christmas. It has white chocolate frosting with crumbles of red and white peppermint candies on top. The cake is marbled yellow and chocolate, with peppermint oil in the chocolate.

Frosting, by the way, is my weak spot, especially the cream cheese frosting we make for the red velvet cupcakes. And here we are, back to red velvet again. But that frosting, whipped at high speed—forever—becomes the lightest, most amazing confection. A generous dollop on each of Fran’s nipples will keep me busy for a while, at least until the frosting’s gone. The stuff is like sweet, sticky air.

We make savory sweets, too. Chipotle peppers and tender bodily tissues don’t really go together. At least, they don’t in my opinion. But the perfect mixture of chipotle and chocolate can be an aphrodisiac in its own right. That particular frosting tops a banana cake. We have a maple and bacon cupcake and a lovely vanilla cupcake with vanilla frosting, drizzled with a balsamic glaze.

Of course, we also have the cupcakes everyone already knows and loves, like chocolate/chocolate and vanilla with strawberry frosting and sprinkles, marshmallow, custard crème-filled cupcakes with colored frosting—everything you’d expect, but it’s the unexpected flavors that make life interesting, in my book.

The woman with the annoying child finally made up her mind. She ordered a dozen vanilla cupcakes. Half with vanilla frosting and half with chocolate. I wasn’t surprised, really. You can tell the adventurous from the ordinary. As I stepped from behind the display case with my bottle of glass cleaner, I couldn’t help hoping that Fran would have something interesting up her sleeve when I got home. Maybe I should text her and tell her I thought it might be time for something new; compliment her on her awesome research skills; tell her we needed a new flavor; tell her I needed a new flavor.

Vanilla’s fine for some people and I’m not saying I don’t like it sometimes, but Fran and I? We’re anything but vanilla. Hey, that could have been a good name for the shop… Oh, well, Spun Sugar and Dandelion Fluff is fine—I’ve learned to love it. (I still think Big Lesbo Cupcakery would have been better.)

LAKE TRAVIS STEAM

Lucien C. West

Kael coaxed her Miata into the Central Market parking lot. As usual, titan-sized SUVs and shiny BMWs aggressively roamed, vying for a spot closest to the entrance. The vibe was uptight, but nothing compared to the extensively entitled one over at Whole Foods.

Spring in Austin was in full swing, and Kael dug catching the scents of mountain laurel and magnolia as she buzzed through the city. It was the ideal time to have the Miata’s top down; the sun was yellow, kind and far from the scorch of August. She zipped into a space that seemed miles away from the entrance, but was actually only half a block. Since it wasn’t August, she wouldn’t melt. Kael hiked up her belt and then lowered it on her firm hips as she strutted toward the Central Market courtyard.

Kael was on a mission to meet an intriguing stranger she had connected with through Craigslist’s “Woman to Woman” section. Kael’s post was on the romantic side; no “Where all my femmes at?” repartee for her. She stated her desire to rendezvous with a mature high femme to compliment her very butch nature.

She felt the hot stare of a seemingly straight woman carrying a bag full of beautiful, expensive produce. Kael gave her a slow nod and continued. She had her share of women staring. Her tousled silver-gray hair was set off by a pleasant, mildly tan face, and hazel eyes, while her masculine-of-center demeanor preceded her unapologetically. After her bout with breast cancer in 2010, Kael had begun weight training to gain back the tone she’d developed from years of competitive swimming. Now nearing sixty-two, Kael was fit, although her body was still coming out of the crazy months of chemo that she countered with IV vitamin therapy. Her hormones were also raging, which perplexed her oncologist, but delighted Kael. Truth be told, she was ready for anything in heels.

The woman she was meeting used the screen name fierce2femme. She had refused to send a photo after several emails, but Kael was so drawn to the way fierce2femme expressed herself—in writing that was intelligent, honest and simply touching—she forgave the lack of a pic. The only characteristic fierce2femme allowed Kael to know was that she wore lipstick “as a personal and political statement.”

Kael buzzed into the Market teeming with foodies eager to part with their hard-earned cash. She grabbed a Topo Chico, snagged a lemon wedge from the salad bar and made her way to the register. The checkout girl, a sweet number with an elaborate tat running up her arm, gave Kael a nice smile.

“Day going okay?” she asked.

“Hey, yeah, it’s been great,” Kael responded. “You might not know it, being stuck in this shell, but the sun’s about to set.”

“Oh, I know it all right,” the checkout girl stated melodically, “because I get off in two point three hours.” She rested her hand on her generous hip and gave Kael a come-hither look. “In case anyone wants to know.“

Kael smiled wide enough so it wouldn’t be mistaken for a smirk.

“I’ll make a note.” She popped off the cap off her Topo and headed out to the courtyard to hunt for fierce2femme.

The grackles, blue-black feathers glinting in the dark-orange sunlight, were conversing in their varied and loud way, cleverly angling in on the remains of an abandoned Caesar salad. Kael loved the mischievous birds and their song/chatter, which caused a pleasant vibration in her solar plexus. The world was truly spectacular at that moment. And even more so when she spotted fierce2femme, a leggy blonde with a classically beautiful face wearing a trendy shade of lipstick, and showing, Kael gratefully noticed, a bountiful, jutting cleavage. She smiled and waved, which caused Kael to immediately shift into an earnest swagger.

“I’m Kael,” she offered, giving fierce2femme’s hand a polite shake. In short order, she learned fierce2femme’s given name, or at least the name she chose to use in the moment, which was Ambera.

Kael understood why Ambera declined to send a pic. Any butch-in-search would fall as hard as a cut pine upon meeting such a lovely woman, feminine and straight in appearance but with an edge. There was something tough, something smoldering underneath. And dang if she wasn’t wearing very high, chic heels, somewhat at odds with her rather conservative floral-print dress. Yeah, something was smoldering underneath, Kael thought.

Kael placed her powerful, stocky legs on each side of a metal picnic bench, took a healthy swig of the Topo and nearly choked on the now-freed lemon she had wedged in the bottle. It was not cool for a butch to have sparkling water splotches on her dark-gray tee. Not cool at all. But Kael brushed it off. Goddess knows, when she was headlong into her chemo treatments, she had learned to forgive the body much.

“So, I’m glad you met me. A lot of women turn off when I refuse to send a pic,” Ambera said, as she sipped from a glass of white wine, luminescent as the sun kissed the day good-bye. Artfully strung Christmas lights turned on at the first hint of dark, giving the courtyard a festive atmosphere. The last plague of grackles flew off.

Kael leaned in. “I didn’t figure you to be a troll.” Kael’s deep voice, as thick as agave, had a positive effect on femmes she knew. Ambera leaned in. Her breasts hovered an inch off the table. Kael thought briefly of sliding her hand under that heavy tit, discretely palming the soft round until she could feel Ambera’s nipple harden.

“A man I am defiantly not,” Ambera said, gently tossing her head back and showing a thin line of pearls at her throat.

The pearls got Kael’s attention. Her post did specifically state she was looking for a lesbian, not interested in marrieds or experimenters of any kind. She’d been out a long, long time, before it was remotely cool, when writing for the Boston Gay Community News was considered a rogue career for a tyke dyke from Minnesota. While she had sympathy for those newly negotiating the hot, thorny path of lesbianism, Kael had run the distance and knew what she wanted: a mature, attractive, high-femme LESBIAN, available for sensuous adventure.

Kael checked Ambera’s fingers for a wedding ring: she wore several rings with inset jewels but nothing obvious. She decided that further conversation would provide the answer. Besides, this chick was smokin’ hot, and maybe she didn’t want to dredge up complications that could muddy the waters.

Kael looked into Ambera’s eyes, trying to discern the color. She must be wearing contacts… who had eyes the color of the earth and sea?

“So, you’re living in Austin…” Kael started, noticing the approval in Ambera’s gaze as she gripped the bottle. She grabbed her Chico tighter, flexing her forearm.

“Pflugerville,” Ambera corrected her.

Freaking Pflugerville? That was a nondescript suburb about seventeen miles north of Austin, layered with tracts of five-bedroom /four-bath homes, where populating families lived in developments like Happy Blanco Trail Village. It was the given territory of straights.

“But I’d move back into the city in a heartbeat,” Ambera told her. “I love the energy, being in the mix!” Kael was struck by Ambera’s sweet allure.

“It’s got its charm for sure. And being able to get to the Congress Street Bridge in twenty minutes is great.” Kael didn’t want to start the conversation of how crowded Austin had gotten, what with a thousand hipsters moving to the “Live Music Capital of the World” each month.

Kael noted that Ambera was staring… longingly it seemed… at her hands. She looked down. Peasant hands. Part of her Polish heritage. She was about to pull them off the table when Ambera took one of her hands in both of hers, which were soft and well manicured.

“Hands make the butch.” Ambera trailed her nail along Kael’s generous thumb. “Strong. And warm.”

Hands are a big part of the butch/femme dynamic. They are the very instruments of sensuous encounters and delivering pleasure… squeezing, teasing, caressing and entering. Ambera emitted that rare femme steam known only to women dedicated to arousing butch sensibility.

Kael let her hand rest in Ambera’s, aware of the voltage flowing between them. She moved herself closer; now Ambera’s thigh rested against her own. Nice legs, set off by metallic point-toe pumps. Ambera followed Kael’s stare. “Yes, Jimmy Choo. I’m a shoe whore.” She took a deep sip of her wine. “My weakness.” She paused, looking pointedly at Kael. “One of them, anyway.”

“Mine too… but not necessarily on me.” Kael squeezed Ambera’s hands and gently let her grasp drop.

“So, what would you like to tell me?”

She soon found out Ambera was brought up in a wealthy suburb of Chicago, immersed in the Catholic tradition. During college, she began her lesbian life, dating many women before discovering her preference for butches. She seemed most fond of a butch who insisted on wearing a tux every Saturday night, á la Fran Lebowitz. You could get away with that in the ’80s.

Whatever perfume Ambera was wearing drew Kael closer. She longed to slide her hand up the inside of Ambera’s thigh, continuing until her fingers encountered that sweet warmth of pussy, gently tapping the fabric of Ambera’s panties, then tracing her index finger along the labia and clit—a request to enter farther, deeper. But a butch doesn’t request so much as perceive, then deftly follow the femme’s desire. Kael was good at it, mining and responding to a femme’s desire. Very good.

The steam emitting from Ambera suddenly evaporated. She looked at her phone. “I do have to go. A previous supper engagement.” This was news to Kael, who immediately drew into a defensive posture.

“Oh, please forgive me. It was arranged prior to meeting you,” Ambera insisted. “I didn’t expect to… find you so attractive.” Flattery certainly engages the butch.

“Do you like the lake? Would you join me Friday afternoon?” Ambera asked. “I have a motorboat, nothing fancy, docked on Lake Travis. I’ll make a nice lunch, and we’ll have a day in the sun.”

“Let me think, my schedule…” Kael trailed off. As a freelance writer, she was in relative control of her working hours.

Ambera continued, “And, I’d really like”—she discreetly eased her pointed toe up Kael’s shin—“to get to know you better.” Just the right touch, yeah.

Struggling to keep some control, Kael countered, “Well, I’ll have to clear some things. But, yeah, the early afternoon would work out okay.”

“I’ll text you the address.” She gathered her purse and rose. Kael stood as well. Still a bit disconcerted, but ever courteous. She wondered if she was an easy mark.

Walking back to her car, Kael felt two distinct rings in her ears: in her left, the peal of a warning bell, and in the right, the swirling, empty breeze of the lonely. Would she in fact meet Ambera on Friday? Indeed she would. Spring temps in Austin ranged from the fifties to high eighties, and the end of the week was supposed to be very warm.

Friday afternoon found Kael making her way down the ramp to Ambera’s boat. Her speedboat was quite fancy, white, tricked out with red metallic detail and an engine as big as Dallas. The warning bell again. She had a big boat, was wearing a floral-print beach dress, hair tastefully swept back and in a headband: that well-off, suburban housewife mien. Still, Ambera had an unmistakable femme aura: the holding of a certain power, with the desire to swoon in the presence of a strong butch.

A gang of dock boys, horsing around for Ambera’s attention, dispersed as Kael walked up. The pleased smile on Ambera’s face encouraged Kael as she jumped into the boat, swinging a backpack full of Pacificos and lime.

“You can put the beer in the cooler there,” she told Kael, who eyed Ambera’s shapely leg showing thru the slit of her dress. She could see why the dock boys vied for her attention. Kael knew her way around a boat, attending to the castoff lines and fenders as the wind pushed them off.

“I’m taking us to a cove I love. Quiet. Isolated,” Ambera said, and after an appropriate idle, executed a turn and began to ford the shallows of the lake. Kael wasn’t fond of Lake Travis, a man-made luxury, filled with the waters of the Colorado River. She felt the vibes of the towns razed to create it reverberate through her the few times she swam in it. But the weather was splendid, and under the influence of late spring sun, the water was ultramarine. Ambera pulled her sunglasses halfway down her sweet nose. Her eyes were greener today, her gaze amused and sultry. Kael allowed herself a half smirk, which emphasized the dimple on her right cheek.

“Nice boat,” she said casually. Yeah, Kael knew how to work it. Ambera smiled, teeth white against her lipstick. “Handsome. Oh my, yeah,” Kael heard as Ambera pushed up the throttle.

As they sped across Lake Travis, Kael checked to see if the boat was outfitted for a family… kid-sized lifejackets or water toys. Nothing visible. Ambera the mystery. Kael was up for a day of adventure and discovery. And if it went right, hot outdoor sex.

Ambera guided the speedboat expertly. How marvelous, thought Kael, as Ambera’s curvaceous physique rolled with the chop of the lake, hair flowing, breasts heaving, manicured fingers lightly touching the wheel.

“A beer, please?” Ambera placed her hand on Kael’s shoulder and then held on to her T-shirt for a few seconds. Her touch was needing and possessive.

“Sure thing.” Kael rifled through the ice chest, feeling her hand freeze up. One of the hangovers from chemo… cold temps forced her hands temporarily into claws. She managed to fish out two Pacificos and warmed her hand under her thigh while pretending to look for the bottle opener. Ambera didn’t notice the delay.

Kael handed her a beer, then raised a longneck bottle to her own lips.

After twenty minutes of buzzing along a shoreline with humongous stones that had cacti clinging to them, Ambera pulled the boat into a cove lined with relatively new trees, offering the illusion of privacy. It was still early; the hordes of party boats wouldn’t be appearing until sunset. Lake Travis was well loved and used by many.

“Finally, home!” Ambera pointed to the anchor, and Kael grabbed the chain and climbed the bow. She looked back at Ambera, whose eyes had followed her. Ambera’s pink lips were wet and parted slightly, appearing extremely kissable. Kael wanted to ravish her then and there. But waiting it out, refining the tease, often brought just desserts, so she would play it cool.

She dropped anchor, yanked the chain to catch bottom and jumped back into the boat. Ambera unbuttoned her dress, revealing a red and black bikini underneath. Kael slowly let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding; they were in close proximity for the first time. Kael picked up Ambera’s scent, more sweet than spicy, and then felt the heat her body radiated. She was a few inches taller, her luscious breasts at Kael’s nose, pressed together into a cleavage Kael longed to nuzzle.

Instead, Kael pulled off her T-shirt, dropped her cargo shorts and retrieved the Bain de Soleil from the pocket. She wore a shiny black Ironman one-piece, designed to emphasize muscle and shape.

“Ah, I love the smell of Bain de Soleil… brings back memories,” Ambera said, as she took the tube and began rubbing the gel onto Kael’s well-defined shoulders. “Nineteen. First serious girlfriend. Now she’s an old-school butch living the dream in Indiana, with grandchildren.” Her touch was firm and knowing. She declined when Kael offered to apply the gel on her, instead suggesting they get the floats from the cabinet. She chose a hot-pink float and passed the green to Kael. Both had rope attached.

“We’ll loop the rope through the hooks on the boat.” Ambera tossed her float overboard and gracefully jumped in. She surfaced quickly. “Cold.” She climbed onto her raft and looked up. With her hair slicked back and skin glistening, she looked like a goddess of the sea.

“How about getting my sunglasses and digging out another beer, Daddy-o?” Ambera asked, subtly adjusting her breasts in her bikini.

Kael opened the cooler, pushed a slice of lime into each bottle, then handed sunglasses and a Pacifico down to Ambera. Now she could drop in her float, execute a perfect dive off the stern and situate herself closer. She collected her body into form and dove, barely making a splash.

Kael opened her eyes. The water was an odd hue of blue-green, slightly murky. She was reminded of how un-alive the lake felt, although her body had always loved the lack of gravity and freedom that water, any water, offered. She transformed into a dolphin of sorts, playful—and was glad that Ambera had invited her for a day on the lake. The weeks of chemo were banked in her memory, but deep in her root, she felt the need to connect, to push her hips firmly into a woman’s mons and grind, baby, grind.

When she surfaced, Ambera caught her eye. “Impressive. A butch mermaid,” she said, and laughed. It was nice to be the object of her delight. Kael swam to Ambera’s float. She was lying on her side, her curves silhouetted by the sun. Kael scissor-kicked, bringing her face next to Ambera’s. She kissed her, instantly surprised by the hot energy that flowed through her from that brief lip-lock.

“Hmmm,” was Ambera’s sweet reply before taking a deep drink of Pacifico. “Near perfect day, huh?” Ambera put her beer in the cup holder, lay back, bent one leg provocatively and took in the sun. Ambera knew the art of the tease well.

Kael situated herself on her float, fetched her beer from the stern step and took a long swig. Getting Ambera back in the boat was the best way to get traction and action. She longed to pry Ambera’s thighs apart with her strong hips, take up an ample breast in each hand, and looking into her blue-green eyes, deliver a real kiss. Several kisses. Forever kisses. Down the proverbial throat kisses. Kael quickly finished her beer. “Another?” she asked, holding up her empty bottle.

“Most definitely.” Ambera turned over on her float, her ass nicely curved. Kael popped off the tops and placed the beers on the stern. Again she dove, watching her shadow as she hit the warmish water. She surfaced, retrieved the beers and handed one to Ambera, purposely avoiding her touch.

Kael mounted her float like a pony, gathered the two ropes and tethered them to the boat. They drifted away from each other, slipping into the water to cool off, slowly sipping at their beers. After a while, Kael paddled over to Ambera’s raft, and Ambera reached out and ran her fingers through Kael’s hair, creating spikes, and then caressed her chin. They paused, taking each other in for a steamy moment, the water lapping the only sound.

“Sweet butch,” Ambera said, stroking gently, delivering a calling card to Kael’s cunt. Kael angled in and kissed Ambera’s lips, firm, slightly moist, yet pliant. Ambera’s lipstick added a bit of sticky friction, and Kael leaned in to taste and explore the corners of her mouth.

“You’re completely lovely, you know.” Kael placed her hand on Ambera’s shoulder, and moved it to her left breast, palming it, raising the nipple through the fabric.

Ambera reached for her thin strap and pulled it down, revealing a creamy breast with a rosy nipple, contrasting with her tan line. “Is this what you like, sailor?” she asked, cupping the mound with a manicured hand. Kael answered by moving in and placing her mouth on Ambera’s tit, enjoying its heft and warmth. Excited, she increased the suck, and nearly flipped her raft.

“Want to continue in the boat?” Kael recognized the slur of passion in her voice.

“No, let’s stay in the water. I love just floating here with you.” Ambera’s hand fingered her raft. “But another beer would be sweet, merman. And then, maybe you could dive deep somewhere else.”

Kael took up Ambera’s empty bottle, swam to the boat and hoisted herself up the ladder. She looked around: all was quiet in the cove, unless there was a perv hanging out in one of the surrounding trees. But she was far too turned on to worry about that now. She had to figure out how to take Ambera in the water. To possess her.

She placed the Pacificos on the ladder, dove and swam to the rear of Ambera’s float. Treading with her sturdy legs, she ran her hands up Ambera’s legs and over her soft ass. Ambera removed her shades. Her eyes were curious and smoldering. Then, raising her ass in the air, Ambera slipped her bikini bottom down to her knees. Kael scissor-kicked and glimpsed the curl of Ambera’s labia. Sweet, dark pink, shaved smooth. Must have.

Gripping each side of Ambera’s raft, Kael kicked hard and landed on the lower half, submerging it about four inches. Her face was now neatly planted at the juncture between Ambera’s legs. Kael extended her tongue and sucked in Ambera’s lips, angling for her vaginal tunnel, tasting her. She breathed deep, taking in the scents of salt and musk. Ambera shuddered, reached back and gripped Kael’s hair as her able tongue continued to flick and tug at Ambera’s meaty labia. Her lips engorged with excitement, deepening into rose.

“Nothing like a tongue dance on the lake,” Ambera sighed as Kael increased the pressure and pull, rewarded by the juice sliding from Ambera’s cunt. The water rose and receded as Kael thrust her tongue as deep as she could.

Soon enough, Kael slid Ambera’s bikini bottom down to her ankles, fully exposing her marvelous ass. Kael, treading, turned the raft and sank her teeth into Ambera’s weighty buttcheek, creating a bite mark that quickly faded in the afternoon sun. And then, like a child tempted, she bit again.

“Don’t waste much time, do you, sailor?” Ambera moved her butt provocatively, and Kael slapped it with a cupped hand. A pink welt appeared. She splashed a bit of lake water on it, not sure if it would soothe or sting.

“Not one hot minute, baby.” Kael then kissed where she had slapped. She wondered if Ambera’s ass entrance was a darker rose, and how tight. She longed to lie full length next to her, slowly pushing her thumb up Ambera’s butthole, without lube, while the rest of her hand briskly rubbed Ambera’s sweet cunt and clit to completion. But they were in the water, shakily maneuvering on a raft losing air, and if not for Kael’s swimming prowess, might be drowning by now.

Staying afloat using a modified frog kick, Kael got back to the business of stroking Ambera’s mons, finally parting the curtains and finding Ambera’s clit, hard as a jewel. She teased the nub, observing the writhe and roll of Ambera’s body, listening to her rich moans of pleasure.

Soon, Ambera’s voice thick and husky, requested it. “Inside. Please.”

Sinking the raft deeper with her body weight, Kael guided her middle finger into Ambera’s snug pussy. How excellent the warmth of the sweet, moist cave compared to the coolish temperature of Lake Travis. Kael slowly pulled out to the threshold, circled and then drove two fingers in with more force. Ambera bucked and shuddered. Getting owned. Kael pushed in and out of Ambera’s fine cunt, picking up the pace, then slowing in dream-like rhythm.

“Ain’t I master of this ship?” Kael wasn’t really expecting an answer. The answer came from Ambera’s moans, the pink-painted fingernails of one hand digging into the side of her float, the other hand at her cunt, wildly massaging her clitoris. The beer bottle rocked precariously in its holder as Ambera’s velvety ass bumped the raft gently, causing rings to fan out over the lake’s surface.

Kael filled her lungs with air and paused for a moment. Ten months ago, she’d lain in a single bed, nauseous as hell, bald, vaguely aware of the cadre of friends attending to her. And here she was, relatively buff, hair thick and now silver, with an inviting woman, afloat in her favorite element. Small, simple miracles turning the day.

Kael swam to the side of Ambera’s float and opened her lips with her tongue. There was great pleasure in kissing and caressing her face with watery fingers. Ambera answered with kisses that were submissive, yet returned with a nuanced heat. Her lips sought, then took up Kael’s thumb. Ambera sucked deeply. Kael immediately felt radiating heat in her root chakra, hardly cooled by the tepid lake.

Ambera slowly removed Kael’s thumb from her hot mouth and began moving it down her torso to her mons.

“I’ve got a thing for thumbs,” she whispered into Kael’s ear while spreading her well-shaped legs. Kael dearly hoped there wasn’t some ass-hat with a camera on shore, ready to scurry home and post their tryst on some porn site. This was the stuff of universal fantasy, and they were creating it. Kael was drawn back into the moment by Ambera’s murmur.

“Fill me up, merman. You know you can.” Ambera shifted onto her back, raised her hips slightly off the raft and began fiddling her clitoris. Kael, gaining purchase on the side of the raft deliberately pushed her thickish thumb into Ambera’s sweet tunnel, the rest of her powerful fingers angled tightly against her anus. Treading vigorously, she managed to continue their kiss. Both sets of Ambera’s lips opened and closed with each thumb thrust.

After a novel’s worth of steady strokes, Ambera tightened her asscheeks, gathered the raft with both hands, and heaved, letting out several musical sighs.

Sated, she gave Kael a smile, and drank a bit of her over-warmed beer. “And how about you, sweet merman… or are you stone?” While she wasn’t exactly stone, Kael was wearing a tight one-piece and frankly, not ready to expose her mastectomy scars to Ambera or anyone else on the planet. Not yet. And she wasn’t sure if ever.

With no answer forthcoming, eyes steady on Kael, Ambera lay back and relaxed her grip on the beer bottle, which hit the water with an exhausted splash.

Kael avoided Ambera’s eyes and smiled shyly. “Gonna go catch that.” She put her face in the water and headed for the deep. She dolphin-kicked and caught the Pacifico bottle at about twelve feet.

Kael stayed suspended in the midnight blue of the lake, feeling an odd peace. Moments, maybe hours passed. When she looked up, she saw Ambera’s brilliant pink raft slowly turning circles on the steamy surface.

IMAGING

Sharon Wachsler

There are three things nobody told me before my MRI: (1) You have to keep your eyes shut the whole time. Blinking is a form of movement, and you need to be perfectly still for the full half hour. (2) Everyone—my doctor, my friends—told me it’s loud, with a lot of banging. They did not tell me how rhythmic the banging is. (3) My uptight, head case ex-girlfriend, Stormy, works there. Can you believe it?

No, you probably can’t. For one thing, you’re thinking, “Stormy?” Gimme a break. But I swear to god, she works there and that is her name. Call the hospital. Ask for Stormy in Imaging. Just don’t get hooked, listening to her silky voice. Just don’t take a stroll past her desk where she taps her long nails on the pink, yellow and white insurance forms laid out in triplicate. Because underneath all that gorgeous, curly black hair and that smooth, soft skin is a paranoid control freak—a typical femme who, once you—a little drunk, a little sloppy and grope-inclined—take her home, will want to know every single thought that passes through your skull every minute of the day, until she moves out for no good reason and leaves your head—the one she tried so hard to get into—spinning.

Seriously, when I roll in to Imaging with Janet, my personal care attendant, and see Stormy, I almost lose my lunch. Then I laugh. Perfect. Of course, she works at a place where they examine each millimeter of your brain. It’s her fucking dream come true. When we were together and I’d come in at five a.m., she’d rain down the questions like rocks wrapped in lace: Where had I been? Who was I with? Why couldn’t I have waited till she was off shift to take her, too? That was her big one—being left. She wouldn’t even give me time to sleep it off and come up with answers. One time I told her (I thought this was pretty smart, considering how fucked up I was), “Listen, you’re gonna have to slice open my head and read my mind, cause I’m going to bed and I don’t talk in my sleep.”

Boom! A year later, I wheel in, all shivery in a flimsy gown, and there she is, waiting to see digital slices of my brain. Crazy. Last I knew, she was a cocktail waitress at UpSide Town. I bet LJ told her to quit. She’s the one that got Storm into the whole sobriety thing. Probably convinced her that her “work environment” wasn’t good for someone “in the program.” Back when LJ and I were friends, I was totally cool about her taking Storm to meetings. That’s how much I trusted LJ, even if she was all about “in recovery” whenever anyone offered her a drink, like she was incapable of just taking it to be polite.

I fucking hate that term, “in recovery.” I sure as shit know what a real disease is, and it cannot be cured by giving up beer. Maybe LJ sees things differently ’cause she became a quad from drunk driving. She’s bitter—that’s why she did what she did. Whereas my being a crip’s nobody’s fault—except maybe God’s—and I can still stand and walk a little on my good days.

Anyway, about Stormy in our good ol’ days: truth is I liked having my girl come out with me and my friends. First we’d do some shots. Then, if I was buzzed enough, I’d wheel onto the dance floor with Storm in my lap. She’d shriek while I did donuts. Sometimes I’d slip my hand under her skirt and we’d make out between spins, giving our stomachs a chance to settle. She’d get so wet, sometimes I’d fuck her right there, my fingers sliding in and out, my thumb giving her some clit action. She’d be breathing heavy and moaning and pushing herself up against me. I guess we must’ve made quite a sight ’cause usually LJ or Peg would come over and tilt their heads at the john. So we’d finish up in the handicap stall. If I was packing, she’d straddle me and I’d grab her ass and pull her up close, and she’d grind against the bulge and get off like that.

So I missed her when I had to go out without her. Plus, people looked at me different when I was with Storm—not like, “You poor, pathetic crip, you’re stuck in that chair”—but like, “Wow, how come you got that hottie when you can’t even dance?” In fact, the only times I screwed around with other girls was when I was pissed at Stormy for not being with me. She could’ve blown off work more. I mean, what’s more important—being with the person you love or hauling drinks to dicks in suits? I did it because I missed her, which kind of made it like a tribute to her, but she never got that.

My friends didn’t get it either. That was another slap in the face. Sully was like, “Treat her right or you’re gonna lose her. And I’ll be happy to pick up the pieces, ’cause she is one fine piece….” It wasn’t funny the first time, but Sully’s one of those dykes who doesn’t get they’re doing the same stupid shit over and over.

LJ acted like I was some asshole who didn’t love Stormy, saying I was “only hurting myself and Stormy with my compulsive dishonesty.” That’s 12-step cult talk, which is bullshit because half the time when I didn’t answer Stormy’s questions, it was ’cause I didn’t know where I’d been or who I was with anyway.

Normally if another butch took my girl’s side, like LJ and Sully did, I’d have seriously questioned their loyalties. But I let it slide ’cause I could see what was going on: they were hot for Stormy. No surprise—she’s gorgeous, like Naya Rivera, crazy-long legs and all. Six feet in heels, with a round, beautiful ass that matches her round, beautiful breasts. You’d think dykes would be throwing themselves at her feet, right? Nope. People are afraid of someone that good-looking. They think, “She’s totally out of my league. If I gave her my number she’d crush me like a bug.”

But I could tell right off that Stormy had no idea how hot she was. I just turned on the old gentleman-dyke charm and told her she was beautiful—which was easy ’cause it’s true—and she was all blushing, which just made her cuter. Then I asked her all about herself, ’cause everyone likes that. Also, she seemed curious about the whole crip thing. I’m not crazy about that, but I’ll use it to get laid.

Not to brag, but you know how the first time with someone usually isn’t that great? With Stormy it was great every time. Even though we were both kinda plastered I remember our first time. That’s how good it was. When I got her home she saw my waterbed, squealed, pulled off her top and jumped on, writhing and giggling. The waterbed’s a medical necessity for me, but it would’ve been worth it for Storm’s reaction! I yanked down her bra just enough to pull out those gorgeous big boobs. She looked incredibly hot—her tits hanging out over this purple lace bra. I was throbbing.

“Scooch back and lay down,” I whispered, moving next to her. I glided my hands up and down her sides, barely touching her. She got all shivery, breathing hard, and then I just—again, really lightly—sucked on one of her nipples and she, like, melted right into the bed, going “Ohhhhh,” really deep and throaty. I played with both her tits a long time—till she was grinding her hips, whimpering and begging, “Joan, please, please touch me.” Her brown eyes were huge and liquidy.

“But I am touching you,” I said, real cool, thrumming her nipples.

After a few more pleases I hiked up her skirt and pressed my palm against her crotch. She was burning, her panties soaked. She’d try to grind against my hand, and I’d inch it away each time. Then I’d suck her tits again and she’d moan and whimper louder.

I waited till she was humping the bed, twining herself around me, begging nonstop, “Joan, fuck me, fuck me, please.”

Then I slid in one finger and she melted again, “Ohhhh, god.”

But once I started to move in her, she was bucking and screaming. I got in another two before she came—tensed up and twisted around me, digging her nails into my back, her cunt clamped onto my hand till she went limp.

It was that good every time. And she was no pillow princess. She gave as good as she got. Not that I’d let her inside me, but sometimes she’d slide her hand under my cock, inside the harness. Before Stormy, I thought a femme with long nails was a stone bottom, but she had this way of really lightly laying a finger on my clit so I didn’t even feel the nail and touching me just right. Because she was so femme, it felt like she was playing with my dick, so I could relax and let her do me. She could just leave her finger on my clit, and she’d make tiny circles over and over. I tried not to moan or move, but I couldn’t help it. She brought me there every time. Damn, she was good.

I’m not completely shallow; besides the great sex, she really was a good person—or I thought she was. When we weren’t fighting, Stormy was really sweet. Like, if I was having a bad day, she’d put hot packs on my joints (which didn’t help the pain, but it felt nice) and read to me, even stupid shit like People or TV Guide. She always brought extra smokes or beer for everyone when my friends were over. So, when they gave me a hard time about two-timing Storm, I sorta understood: they saw how great she was with them. However—and this is a big however—they did not see the crap she put me through personally.

For instance, if she found out that I’d fooled around, even if it was just some titty and kissing in the john, I’d have to “process” with her. That is a major problem with being a lesbian. “Processing” was Stormy’s code for making me talk about shit we should’ve left alone. She’d go on and on about “sharing our feelings” and “letting each other in.” But if I did really tell her how I was feeling, she’d get mad.

Like once, I spent the weekend with this dyke I met doing shooters. I came home and Stormy was out of her mind because I “disappeared” for two days without calling or texting. It was ridiculous! The woman I crashed with was a butch, so obviously nothing happened. Even plowed, there are certain lines I do not cross. It’s not natural. I love my friends, but to do them, or worse, to let them do me? I’d rather fuck a drag queen. (Some drag queens are hot.)

But Stormy’s ranting away about how it’s not about cheating, it’s how worried she was, and then she launches into her usual thing about “communication” and blah blah fucking blah. I can’t tell you exactly what she said till suddenly she grabbed my hand and said, “Joan, tell me what you’re feeling, right now,” and I was so taken by surprise that I told her: “I was feeling bored and wondering what was on pay-per-view.”

You woulda thought I shot her dog! She was screaming and crying how she’s trying so hard and why is she going through all this if I won’t try, too? She needs me to try too if this is gonna work. I took her hand and told her that was exactly the problem: She didn’t have to try so hard. If she’d just relax like me, everything would be fine. “That’s why I keep my mouth shut,” I told her, “because when I talk it only causes problems for us.” I was hoping she’d really get it this time. It hurt me to see her so upset ’cause I loved her.

The next day I told LJ about it, and I was expecting her to go “Women!” and roll her eyes, but she just got quiet. So I just moved on. But she didn’t. A couple days later LJ pulled this really shitty trick on me.

She calls up and asks if I want to come over for Wii boxing. But when I get there LJ, Sully, Peg, and my sister, Claire, are there, all staring at me. My stomach goes into knots. I’m all, “Is it somebody’s birthday?”

LJ says, “Joan, we want to talk. We’re concerned about you.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Never better.”

But Sully goes, “Some of the choices in your life is what we mean.”

“How your drinking—” LJ starts.

“The fuck?” I yell. “You all trash me behind my back, then think you can tell me how to live?”

“It’s hurting you and us and Stormy,” says LJ.

“Stormy! Did that cunt put you up to this?”

LJ, the prick, says no, it was her idea, but the important thing is “We’re coming from a place of love.” Who comes up with this shit? Hallmark?

I’m heading out the door, screaming, “Leave Stormy outta this! She’d never pull this! She loves me.”

Well, I was wrong, because a week after, Stormy moves out while I’m visiting Claire. After all her bullshit about sharing emotions, she leaves without talking to me or even telling me she’s dumping me or why. How’s that for hypocritical?

My best guess is LJ pulled that “intervention” to ruin our friendship so she could make the moves on Stormy. But I’ve never known for sure because, until today, I haven’t seen either of them.

Now, wham! Like a punch in the gut, I’m in Imaging staring at Stormy. Her hair is pulled back into a neat little bun and she’s wearing these lavender scrubs. And I’m remembering these very non-medical images of Stormy: the top of Stormy’s head bobbing in my lap while she sucks me off, her nails digging into my thighs. Stormy riding my cock, her head thrown back, all sweaty, and her makeup running down her face. Stormy spread out on her back on my bed, her wrists and ankles cuffed—and I’ve got my whole fist in her and she’s coming so hard I think she’s gonna break my hand.

But she’s Miss Cool-and-Collected. I’m just another patient. Just as sweet as cherry pie, she’s handing me all the forms to sign: the consent form, the privacy policy form, the insurance form, the blah blah form.

Then I put two and two together: she saw my name on the chart. She knew I was gonna be here—she’s probably known since Friday, when I did the preregistration—whereas I’m totally unprepared for our little reunion. She dumped my ass, and now she gets her golden opportunity to see inside my head. I wanna break something. Then she says, “The technician needs to ask you a few questions. She’ll take you into another room for privacy.”

What’re the questions they can’t ask me in front of Janet and the little old lady who’s waiting three lime-green chairs away, for Chrissake? I mean, Janet’s been my attendant for three years. She changes my sheets, helps me shower, cleans up my puke. Hell, she’s even run my dicks through the dishwasher. But I decide I’m just as happy to get away from Stormy.

The tech, whose name tag reads SHEILA, just grabs my chair and wheels me into the other room without so much as a hello. She asks me the same questions I answered during preregistration yesterday: Do I have a pacemaker? Have I ever gotten metal in my eyes? Is there any chance I might be pregnant?

I love that last one. Just to mess with her I say, “Sweetie, I’m a gold-star lesbian, you know? Untouched by Y-chromosomal hands.”

Sheila doesn’t bat an eyelash, so I’m thinking, hmm, probably bi or maybe a femme. I give her the once-over. She’s blonde, in Scooby-Doo scrubs, kinda cute in a Bridget Jones sorta way. I give her the smile, but she’s like a robot with the questions: Am I wearing any metal—hair clips, underwire bra? As if.

She says the same shit I’ve been told: Hold really still so the picture comes out clear. Eyes closed. They’ll do several angles. It will be loud. It will be over in about half an hour.

“Any questions?” Sheila asks, then grabs my chair again, kinda rough, and wheels me back into the waiting room, jerking to a stop. Nice bedside manner. I cock an eyebrow at Janet to see if she caught it. She shrugs.

Sheila’s leaning over with her arm around Storm, talking really low, which all seems very unprofessional, in my opinion. Even though they’re just a few feet away, and I’m leaning in (in a casual way), I can’t catch a word. They giggle a little, which, I’m sorry, is not medically appropriate. I’m not jealous—I mean, Stormy with another femme? What would they do together? But then I realize I never really asked her much about her exes. I start picturing Storm with all the butches she met through me who are no longer my friends, like LJ and Peg, and I get so steamed I lose track of things.

Stormy and Sheila both glance at me, and I’m sure Stormy’s been trashing me, but before I can flash Sheila a smile that says, “Don’t believe a word of it,” she’s disappeared through a door on the right. A second later a big woman in dark blue scrubs comes out: buzz cut, snake tat on her biceps, sleeves rolled up like a muscle shirt. I crack a grin and she gives me the nod. For the first time since I crossed the threshold into Imaging, I unwind a little.

Stormy comes around from behind her desk. “Lynn will get you set up,” she breathes, lightly placing a hand on Lynn’s excessive musculature. What is up with this place? Is eating pussy a prerequisite for working here?

“I’ll help, too,” Stormy adds. Grunting, she and Lynn hoist me from the chair. “I know how to move you, don’t I?” Stormy murmurs and winks at me. I breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever Sheila’s problem is (probably nothing, probably I’m just feeling paranoid because of the shock), Stormy certainly isn’t holding a grudge.

My new butch bud and my apparently non-hostile ex lead me to a lift that raises me to a small, rectangular white enclosure with a long, narrow bed. They help me swing my legs onto it. “It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?” Stormy says sympathetically. Lynn hands me foam earplugs, which I insert, then puts my neck inside this sort of brace that holds my head in place. Next, she slides several pieces of foam against my head, inside the head brace, further immobilizing me, before finally snapping a white plastic plate over my face. I must look like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs.

“Okay, Joan,” Lynn rumbles in a smooth, professional tone, “Don’t worry. We’ll have you out of here in no time. I’ve got other stuff to do, but Sheila’s gonna take you through it step-by-step.” Lynn points to a booth raised up high with a dim red light blinking inside. I can see Sheila in there, like a DJ in a club with shitty decor. Lynn walks out.

Stormy leans over and I feel a lightning-quick spark when her breasts graze my chest. “I won’t be far,” she pats my wrist. “We’ll keep an eye on you,” she says reassuringly, then steps back.

“I’ll need you to stay real still, Joan,” Sheila says through an intercom, as I slide into the white tunnel behind me.

I shut my eyes. Half an hour like this. Good lord. I need that deep breathing my doctors are always recommending when nothing else works for the pain, even Jack Daniels. Focus on my breath. Picture a happy place.

“All right, Joan.” Sheila’s voice sounds metallic coming through a speaker near my head. “This first one will be a minute and a half.” I’ve been told so many times how loud it’ll be that I’m really curious how it will sound. After a few preliminary clicks and bangs, it goes Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! It sounds a hell of a lot like industrial music like they played at the club the night I met Stormy. With all the other shit I’ve been through, I can definitely stand ninety seconds of medical techno pop.

Then I feel a gentle tug on the tie-string on my hospital-issue pants. I’ve been told a million times to lie perfectly still or they’ll need to redo the pictures. I really don’t want to be in here longer than necessary. So although my instinct is to jump at the unexpected touch, all my instincts—to scream, panic, run, flail and generally get the hell out of this little tube where my head is caged and if I think about it I might feel like I’m suffocating—are frozen. Instead I’m still as ice on the padded board. Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! The tug comes again, and I feel air against my skin. Christ, the front flaps must be open, my jockeys showing. I hope to hell it’s a decent pair. Then I realize how stupid it is to be worrying about that when Stormy is back in my—well, not bed, but pants. It’s a start. I guess Sheila is mellower than I thought ’cause there’s no way in hell she can’t see what’s going on down here. I’m definitely warming up to Imaging.

The banging stops. Sheila’s voice crackles through. “You’re doing great, Joan,” she says. “You might feel the table move a little bit now. Just keep holding nice and still. This one is three minutes.”

The clicks and whirs start up with a few BANGs for good measure. Then the table begins to jiggle and the accompanying noise is jangle, wham, jangle, wham. My teeth, tongue, jaw, neck—my whole body is vibrating. Now this has some potential.

Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so because I feel a soft, warm finger slip underneath my jocks, part my lips and land lightly on my clit. The finger stays still, but with my whole body vibrating, it doesn’t matter. I feel waves of pleasure, magnified by the illicitness of the whole crazy situation. The noise just makes it better, amplifies the sensation. Stormy has not lost her touch—or her wild streak. Hot blood rushes to my toes as my orgasm builds. Then the machine shudders off and the finger withdraws.

“Doing fine,” Sheila announces. “This one is four and a half minutes.” The clangs start, but the table’s motionless—damn!—and this time the noises are louder, longer, more insistent. It takes a few moments to figure out the rhythm: four shuddering BOOMs, two beats of silence, then Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Beat, beat.) Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Again. A good minute passes without any action in my pants and I’m bummin’ that Stormy’s pulling this shit. Maybe her idea of revenge is to get me two-thirds there and then leave me, locked in this hellish machine, with a blue clit.

But halfway through a set of booms, the finger slides under my skivvies again. No, wait, two fingers. They skim briefly up to my still-hard clit and hang there for the two beats of silence, then Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! And the fingers slide right into my very wet cunt. Wow. I don’t usually like anyone inside me—butch street cred and all. I don’t usually get this wet, either. Clearly this is one of the finer medical facilities. It definitely earns its rank as Boston’s best teaching hospital. I’m learning a lot.

With each boom, Stormy thrusts in. At the two moments of silence, she pulls out. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Oh, oh, oh, oh.) Pause. Pause. (Try not to whimper. Try not to moan.) Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Oh lord, oh lord, oh lordy-lordy-lord.) Three minutes are up way too freakin’ fast.

“This one will be four and a half minutes,” Sheila whirs in my ear. Yes! That’ll take me over the edge. This time the noise is straightforward: Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! Perfect for a hard-pumping in-and-out. I wait. Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! C’mon Storm, c’mon! Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! My clit throbs. My ears strain through the plugs and the din for some hint of where Stormy is and when she’s gonna touch me again. I can’t grope around for her—the arm bone’s connected to the head bone’s connected to the twat bone, et cetera—unless I want to risk doing the MRI over again.

So, for four and a half minutes I strain to hear or feel or sense somebody, some movement, some touch, some fucking something besides my clit humming. Nothing. Maybe she’s left. Stormy has left the building, my mind jeers. You’ve been a great audience. Thank you. Don’t forget to tip your MRI technician. Good night! Goddamn her.

“Joan, this scan will be three and a half.” Click. Bang, bang, clink clink. Bang, bang, clink clink. Take yourself to your “happy place,” I coax myself. Think about the Arboretum on a summer day, full of flowering trees and cute dykes in tank tops out walking their dogs. Think about… the three warm fingers sliding into your cunt, holy Christ. Bang, bang, clink clink. Oh god, oh god, oh oh. Yes, yes, oh oh. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck-mefuckme. And there, my eyes shut, my whole body rigid, the godawful noise filling my head, Stormy filling my cunt, I come. Oh god, do I come. Motionless and noiseless, I come. And it’s fantastic. There’ll be a stain. Good thing they change the paper between patients. It’s hard not to grin. Stormy considerately ties my PJs shut.

I barely even notice when Sheila buzzes in for the last time. “One minute and then you’re done,” she purrs. No, I’m already done. Waterfalls, puppies, hot apple pie—who needs that shit? I lie still, reliving the last half hour.

The noise stops. The table glides out of the tube. Sheila unhooks the plastic thing from my face. I gingerly open my eyes. I feel a little woozy. Who cares? Sheila helps me swing my legs to the floor, then takes one of my elbows. “Take her other arm,” she says, motioning behind me. I turn my head to give a big smile to Stormy, but it is not Stormy.

Reaching forward is the muscled, hugely grinning Lynn. As her glistening fingertips pass my face, the reek of my cunt juice hits me. I almost fall over.

“Whoops-a-daisy,” Sheila murmurs. “Wow, Joan, you’re shaking and sweating. You’re downright slippery. Isn’t she, Lynn?”

The aide smirks and Sheila continues, “We better get you stable. We wouldn’t want to drop you. It’s scary when someone you rely on doesn’t support you, don’t you think, Joan?”

I can’t speak. My brain is as limp as my body. The siren of panic is wailing louder and louder. I gotta get away from Stormy, from this monster Sheila, and especially from Lynn who just… who…

I shudder.

A moment later the door opens. Stormy rides up the lift behind my wheelchair. Lynn and Sheila lower me, trembling, onto my seat. “I’ll be right back!” Sheila announces and practically skips to her booth. She returns carrying a brown paper bag, which she places in Lynn’s outstretched, pungent hand.

Sheila turns to me. “The images we took today are in our computer. The radiologist will interpret them and send a report to your doctor within the week.”

Then she grabs Stormy and kisses her full on the lips. “Break time!” she sings. “Where do you wanna go for lunch?”

Stormy snuggles against the shorter, blonde woman. “Panda Garden?” She shrugs. “Lynn, you coming, too?”

“Naw, I’m gonna spend lunch with Joan,” she says, and taps the bag, grinning at me.

They’re nuts. If these are the people Stormy’s with now, she can have them. And if Lynn thinks she’s seeing me for lunch or ever she’s got another thing coming. I need to get the hell out of here.

“Good seeing you again, Joan,” Stormy says as she pats my shoulder. She takes Sheila’s hand and they slip out.

I’m alone with Lynn. “Here’s my card,” she whispers, tucking it into my pack. “It’s totally against hospital rules for patients to hook up with staff, so please don’t tell anyone, okay?” I stare at her in horror, but she just beams. “I bet you’re ready for a smoke, huh?” she says, lowering the lift.

In the waiting room the elderly lady and Janet sit on the green hospital chairs. Janet puts down the Cosmo she’s been reading. “Got all the pictures they needed?” she asks.

“And then some,” Lynn nods, pulling a DVD out of her bag and saluting me. “I’ll see you again, Joan,” she says, tapping the disk, then pocketing it. “And again and again…”

Janet looks quizzically at me. I’m remembering the blinking red light in Sheila’s booth and Stormy’s words: We’ll keep an eye on you.

“You look a little green around the gills,” Janet says, and frowns. “Maybe someone should look at you before we leave?”

“Nobody’s looking at me!” I snap. “Get my clothes! We’re getting the fuck out!”

“Okay, boss,” Janet rolls her eyes. She steers me out the door and into the parking lot. The sun is blinding, reflecting off glass and chrome. I try to close my eyes to the glare. The door to Imaging hisses shut behind me.

BIRTHDAY BUTCH

Teresa Noelle Roberts

I’d love to say JT and I met at a seedy bar, like characters in a’50s pulp novel with a cheesy title along the lines of Women in the Shadows or Cruel Female Lusts. Actually a mutual friend introduced us, and I don’t think Edgar imagined that we’d hook up. He just knew that JT was looking for someone who’d tend bar at her birthday party and I do a bit of bartending. People seem to enjoy having a tiny slip of a woman in a slinky vintage cocktail dress and high, high heels mixing them drinks. It’s eye candy for those who like pretty ladies, retro fun for everyone, and I make a mean cosmo and pull a perfect pint of Guinness if I do say so myself.

As soon as I met JT, something pinged my radar—not my gaydar, because Edgar had already mentioned we were both dykes, but the other radar, the one that found women who might particularly fancy a woman like me, a woman who looked like she was all sweet curves, but knew how to bring a submissive type to her knees. JT was big, buff and loud—and absolutely gorgeous—but I sensed something else, something that wanted to stop, if only for a little while, being so damn tough. I think she sensed the steel inside my fragile trappings, even if she wasn’t sure, initially, what to make of the combination.

Even before I did the smoldering yet arrogant sideways glance, even before I crossed my legs in a way that showed off my Cuban-heeled stockings, hellishly high heels and kitten-with-a-whip tattoo on my calf, JT looked me up and down stealthily, yet wouldn’t meet my eyes. She held my hand a little too long when she shook it, yet stood farther away than I’d expect a big, good-looking butch to do with a pretty femme. Especially not when I’d made a point of mentioning I wasn’t dating anyone as soon as I saw her big brown eyes, strong arms and mischievous smile.

It was a smile that seemed less confident around me than it did around other people.

Some women might have found that discouraging.

I found it promising.

There’s cool distance, the kind you maintain as a barrier between you and someone you don’t particularly like.

And then there’s hot distance, which is what happens when you like someone a lot, but are baffled by what you’re feeling and aren’t ready to act on it.

This was hot distance.

And I intended to close it.

I watched JT with other women as I served drinks at her birthday party. She flirted. She danced close, even with women who were definitely part of a couple. Hell, she danced close with guys, including Edgar, who was there with his husband. She hugged and smooched and grabbed butts. She laughed a lot, deep and sexy and hearty, the way I like to see a woman laugh. Especially when she’s big and strong, with hands that could span my waist (if I’m wearing a corset).

But not with me. With me, it was all shy glances from downcast eyes and the kind of “pleases” and “thank yous” and gentle good behavior that would make a churchgoing grandma proud.

It made me giddy, as if I’d been drinking just enough champagne for the bubbles to get to me.

Maybe she wasn’t sure how to treat someone who was essentially the hired help for the night, but could just as easily have been a party guest. But I didn’t think so. I ventured a guess that she’d read something in my body language, my carriage, the way I walked in my heels as strong and confident as she did in her Docs, and it touched some part of her that wanted a small, soft woman who could make her feel small and soft herself. She wasn’t sure how to go about courting a domme in a pretty vintage dress, though, especially when we hadn’t met at a munch for kinksters or a play party, and it made her adorably shy.

Certainly she made a lot of excuses to fetch drinks for her friends and visit the bar again to half-talk to me, to not quite meet my eyes. And I took advantage of those visits to brush my hand against hers, to lean forward so she could look at my cleavage (and then look away again, a telltale red on her cheeks), to lead her shamelessly into flirtation despite her best efforts to remain polite and respectful.

JT was definitely intrigued, but I thought it might take more than one night to get her to take the bait. After all, we’d just met, and through Edgar, lovingly dubbed Cottage Cheese Boy because he was milder than vanilla.

Then a couple of drunk, rowdy bois decided to do my work for me. After the cake was cut, but before the presents were opened, the cry went up, led by one particular couple, “Time for JT’s birthday spanking!”

I stopped washing glasses and leaned on the bar to watch the show.

JT started out protesting, squirming and doing all the things you’re supposed to do when overenthusiastic, tipsy friends decide to smack your ass in public.

In the midst of her struggles JT glanced over at me.

Very slowly, very deliberately, I winked and nodded.

Her eyes widened. Her struggles continued, but less emphatically and, at least to my eyes, less believably.

Since everyone else was watching JT and her friends roughhousing, I leaned forward and cupped my breasts so they spilled out of the neckline of the strapless dress I wore. A quick flash of nipple and they were back in my dress, but I think I made the point: get spanked and you might get these.

JT licked her lips and relaxed visibly.

The slighter of the bois grabbed her wrists and pushed her forward, pinning her wrists down to the table so her butt stuck out. Seconds later, the other laid a good whack on her ass.

JT’s body stiffened and she yelped.

On the second whack, though, she sagged, yielding.

I clenched. That moment when a strong woman surrenders, even if someone else provoked it, is always delicious to see.

She turned toward me again, her eyes wide and stricken, her mouth slightly open. I could tell she was breathing heavily.

For the entire time she was being spanked—first fairly seriously by the bois who’d instigated it, then a playful smack or two from most of the guests—she kept her face turned toward me, letting me watch each expression that passed over her face. Playful amusement changed to panic, and panic changed to a delicious mixture of panic and arousal. The arousal grew as her friends continued to torment her and the panic eased back to nervousness or self-consciousness, but never fled altogether.

Caught in the heat, I squirmed and rubbed my slick lips against my lace panties. I wanted to order everyone else away, strip off JT’s jeans and continue spanking her properly, catching the sweet spot where thighs curved up into ass, lingering after each stroke to let the pain morph to pleasure, then pinching the reddened, tender flesh to morph pleasure back to pain. Wanted to fuck her senseless once she’d been thoroughly spanked, or perch on the table, thighs open, fist my hands in her hair and force her—not because she’d need to be forced but because it would be fun for both of us—to lick me to orgasm.

The gathering grew more raucous as the guests cheered and laughed and counted loudly, even though the count had long since exceeded JT’s possible age.

Some of the other guests must have noticed how she trembled and gasped, how her hands clenched and unclenched on the table, how she cocked her ass toward the spanking hands.

But she was still turned toward me, so only I got to watch as her face flushed and her eyes widened. Got to see the astonished need blossom on her handsome face.

Got to see her mouth at me, “Please.”

I nodded almost curtly, though I melted on the inside from a combination of lust and tenderness. I doubt anyone noticed. But JT did.

Her eyes closed, then opened again in astonishment. She screamed in perfect silence as the orgasm unleashed itself. Her gaze locked into mine and I shared an echo of every tremor she felt.

Even though it was presumptuous, given that nothing had happened other than some significant eye contact, I yielded to the impulse to mouth, “Mine.”

This time she couldn’t hide the gasp or the convulsion.

Most of her friends began to chuckle, except for the ones who were too busy kissing and groping their dates, turned on by the unexpected show.

I’m 99 percent sure the instigators would have been happy to have their wickedly fun way with her, either later or right there in the middle of the party. And under other circumstances, JT might have let them—they were a good-looking pair, both lean and leggy with small, perky breasts and short, sexily messy hair. Instead, she laughed and let the couple engulf her in a hug. Then she smacked both their asses with all the strength in her body. JT’s not a small girl, so they both yelped and jumped back. “Let’s see,” JT said loudly, in a voice that sounded only slightly shaky and maybe only because I was listening for that telltale postorgasmic quiver, “Mackenzie’s birthday’s in June and Laura’s is in October. Lots of time to plot and scheme. Wait for it, guys. Just wait for it.”

A number of the guests chimed in, offering to help with the plot—evidently Mackenzie and Laura instigated all kinds of amusing trouble for their friends. It’s possible the tables could have turned right then, if JT hadn’t proclaimed loudly, “After that, I need a drink,” shook off her friends, and headed to the bar.

She moved with a sexy butch swagger, but her face was soft and eager as she approached me. She ordered a dirty martini, so I could take a little time fussing over it. “Dirty martini for a dirty girl,” I whispered as I pretended to look for the jar of olives. “You came, didn’t you?”

She nodded, her face once again flushed. “Twice. But only because I was looking at you. Playing rough makes me wet, but it’s never enough to get me off. Not until you told me to come tonight.” Her voice, already soft, dropped even lower, to a quiet burr that vibrated my clit.

“Do you have plans for after the party?” Before she could answer, before she could even open her mouth again, I said, “Change them. I can give you a birthday treat you’ll really like. But only if you’re good.”

She nodded, her face gone vacant with desire.

“One dirty martini for the birthday girl,” I said teasingly loudly, handing her the drink and shooing her away with a wink and a mouthed “later.”

I don’t know if she’d planned to hook up with one of the other guests. But she managed to encourage everyone out the door just after midnight, although a number of the guests had drifted off in twos and threes right after the spanking, in search of privacy or maybe opportunities for their own bit of exhibitionism.

JT was at the bar as soon as the last women were out the door. “You’ll still have to pay me until two o’clock,” I said as dryly and calmly as I could.

“You’re worth it.” She chuckled throatily.

She stopped when I stalked around the bar and sidled up close to her.

Even with my four-inch heels, she was a few inches taller than I am—so I grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her down to me.

“First order,” I breathed. “Kiss me. Kiss me like you mean it. You may hug me, but no touching me otherwise yet. Right now, I’m interested in a good kiss.”

Those strong, muscled arms were around me before I finished talking, and her lips closed on mine.

I didn’t taste gin and olives—I don’t think she ever drank that dirty martini. I tasted a little butter-and-sugar goodness from the birthday-cake frosting that lingered at the corners of her mouth.

Then I tasted only her, and that was headier than any drink.

JT held me close, almost lifting me off the floor. It was more forceful than I’d normally want a sub to be until we knew each other well, but forceful or not, she was trembling with need and nerves and being so close to her let me enjoy that. She kissed me like she meant it, all right, but stayed one nanosecond behind me, letting me set the pace. Her body was fire hot and her hands shook and I could tell she wanted to grind against my thigh, caress the bounty of my breasts, raise my satin skirt to check out my garter belt and tiny (and very wet) lace panties.

She didn’t, though.

Nor did she hesitate when I pulled away and told her to strip. In fact, her clothes came off so fast I’m surprised she didn’t break her bootlaces or rip the buttons off her shirt.

She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Her body was so beautiful I had to look away and bark, “Fold your clothes and put them on the chair. I can’t abide slobs,” so I didn’t abandon all my lovely kinky notions and start exploring every inch of that strong, curvy lusciousness. (I hoped to do that at some point, because I’d enjoy it—I’m a greedy domme and I like to play with my girls in every possible way. Just not yet.)

Her eyes widened, but she obeyed without saying anything but “Yes… Ma’am.” She hesitated then, “Should I call you Ma’am? Mistress?”

I smiled then, a predatory smile that should have showed fangs. “Tina will do—but I like the way you think. Now turn for me. Let me look at you.”

“Yes, Tina.”

She didn’t know what to do with her hands and stumbled over her own feet turning around. But she was grinning like she was high, and moisture glistened on her strong thighs, and her ass, formerly concealed by comfortably loose jeans, was round and perfect enough to make Jennifer Lopez green with envy—and still slightly pink from the earlier spanking.

I stalked over and dug my short, elegantly red nails into that perfect curve. She flinched, then sighed with pleasure. I nudged her thighs apart, stroked at her wet sex until her hips began to work of their own accord and her breath came in little gasps. Then I said, “No. Not until I tell you. And don’t say a word, not unless it’s to say ‘red’ because you want me to stop.”

I felt her body stiffen, but she obeyed.

Obeyed as I continued to stroke her slick, swollen clit and insinuate my fingers into the drenched pussy.

Obeyed as I bent her over the couch and spanked her ass just as I’d imagined earlier, until it was so red it was almost glowing. Tears of excitement flowed down her thighs, and tears of frustration hung in her eyes when I pulled her up for a rough kiss, but she still obeyed. Obeyed when I grabbed her abandoned belt and snapped it against that beautiful reddened ass.

At that, she flinched away, then arched back, seeking more. She sucked her breath in on a hiss and let it out with a moan, but she didn’t speak.

And even though her pussy was as wet as any I’d seen, and twitched visibly with each smack of the belt, she didn’t come.

Not until I grabbed one end of the belt in each hand and laid it across her throat, applying no pressure, but letting her know I could. “Come,” I ordered. “Come now.”

And she did, with a cry that shook a smaller orgasm loose in me.

Suddenly unsteady in my heels, I dropped the belt and plopped down onto the couch, encouraging JT to follow. I ended up with her lying across my lap, her face zoned out and tear streaked and blissful.

It took a while before either of us said anything. Finally she spoke in a small, soft, floaty voice, “What may I do for you, Tina?”

“The mind boggles. I can think of all sorts of delicious things. But right now, just lie here with me and catch your breath.”

Then I grabbed her nipple and gave it a twisting pinch. “Oh yeah… and you could come again. Now.”

And she did, arching her back and scrambling against the couch as pleasure claimed her. “Wha… the… hell,” she gasped out. “I’ve never come from something like that.”

“Never had someone tell you to, either, I bet.”

When she shook her head, I laughed and said, “Oh, JT, we are going to have so much fun.”

And then I kissed her, letting her taste the remnants of my lipstick, letting her feel me claiming her the way a butch like her needed to be claimed.

NOCTURNE

Cheryl Jimmerson

I sit beside Lorraine on the soft beige couch in her living room. She rubs the inside of my thigh and kisses my neck. She is a tall, dark woman with a crop of kinky hair, prominent cheekbones and a perfect mouth. I was never going to see her again. I was never supposed to come back here. I should run out the door and back down the stairs to my car. But I like where her hand is now. I like the feel of her mouth on me.

I met her a month ago in a dyke nightclub called The Grove. The first time I heard of it, I was in a car with a group of straight women from the office. We were on our way to a new restaurant for lunch and drove past it.

“We should go there for drinks one night,” someone said.

The others laughed.

“They’ll try to give us more than a drink in there!”

“I heard the police have to come and break up fights.”

“Really?” another said.

“They get into it over their girlfriends and pull knives on each other.”

“Dykes don’t play, you hear me?”

I looked at the eyesore of a building, wondering what it was like at night. The image of it stayed with me well into the evening, as I lay alone in bed. The next night I decided to drive out to see it again. I didn’t dare pull into the crowded lot, but drove by slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the women who went there. For several nights I did this without luck.

It’s a squat, dilapidated building, with peeling white paint exposing the flat gray underneath. What stands out are the red double doors that give it the look of an old church. I’d drive by, preferring the safety of my car. Not wanting to cross over into another world, for fear of being unable to return. Each night I’d drive away feeling as if I’d escaped danger.

On the night I finally did turn into the lot and enter the club, I was not myself. I felt like a somnambulist moving through a dream as I got dressed and left my apartment. A shiny sliver of moon was in the sky that night. It followed me down several streets, vanishing once I reached the expressway.

When I reached the club I parked at the very edge of the lot. I stepped out of my car and looked over the rotting wooden fence to the plot of land next door. It was overrun by wild grass and kudzu. Jutting out of its center, with half its trunk covered in the leafy vegetation, was a gnarled tree, with twisted limbs pointing in every direction. I stood there gazing at it before I made my way to the club and pushed through the red doors into a room that was wall-to-wall with women.

I got a drink and sat at a table in a corner, near the edge of the dance area, which was set down into the floor like a pit surrounded by metal railing. The music was fast and beat driven. But the dancers moved far behind the beat, as if they were listening to an entirely different song. I looked down from my chair, watching them kiss and grind into their partners. I had never seen women touch each other openly before.

Women of all different shades stood around the dance floor, watching with attentive, respectful looks, like they were observing a ceremony. Standing apart from them was Lorraine. Instead of watching the dancers, she watched me. I wanted to run. I got up to go to the restroom and was pointed to a dimly lit corridor at the other end of the room. Couples were making out along its walls. I moved slowly, keeping my eyes on one pair in particular as they kissed and rubbed against each other. I wanted to stop and keep watching them but made my way to the restroom where inside, it was more of the same. Women clung to one another while they waited for an available stall, going in two at a time when one was open.

I entered one with a clogged toilet. Its stench filled my nostrils, making me nauseous. I hurried and used it. Then I rushed to the sink, where I washed and rewashed my hands. When I raised my eyes to the mirror, I saw the strikingly dark face from outside staring back at me. For a moment I couldn’t breathe as she moved closer.

“I don’t mean to bother you. I noticed you sitting by yourself out there and thought you might like some company. I’m Lorraine.”

I dried my hands, turned around and extended one to her. She took it in both of hers, enclosing it with long, ebony fingers. I told her my name. It rolled melodically off her tongue.

“Let me buy you a drink, Dory.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Well, dance with me then?”

“I don’t dance much.”

“Just one dance or half of one if you like?”

I looked around at the couples waiting against the walls, then back at her.

“Is this your first time here?” she asked.

I nodded. We watched a woman pull her companion into the filthy stall I’d just left, slamming the door behind them. “Fun time,” Lorraine said, winking.

“Disgusting,” I said, walking out and back down the corridor, keeping my eyes straight ahead. When I re-entered the main room, I felt her hand on my arm.

“One dance,” she said, and led me down into the pit of the dance floor.

I stood in front of her, unable to will my body into motion. She raised her arms, swaying her hips as she moved closer to me. I began to rock side to side on the balls of my feet, feeling stiff. She slipped her arm around my waist and pulled me to her, getting my body to fall into rhythm with hers. I stopped trying to follow the music and followed her instead. My body opened as she moved against me. I placed my arms around her waist, wanting to be as close to her as possible. She ran a hot hand along the center of my back. I looked up into her face and noticed the small scar on her left cheek. When I reached to touch it, she pulled her head back, and her face closed like a trap. She quickly opened it again and flashed a smile. As if to offer forgiveness, she brushed her lips playfully against my cheek and kissed me softly on the mouth. I was floating in her arms, until I looked up and noticed the eyes of the women around the dance floor staring down at me.

“I’ve got to go,” I shouted above the music.

“Where?” she asked, looking surprised.

I pulled away from her without answering. I stepped out of the pit, and moved as swiftly as I could through the women, toward the exit, feeling Lorraine at my heels. I pushed through the doors, into the cool night air, and turned around to face her.

“Where do you have to go?” she asked.

“Home, it’s late.”

“Is someone waiting for you there?” she asked, moving closer to me.

“Yes,” I said, wanting to stop her.

“Are you serious?”

“No!” I admitted. “But I’ve got to go. I didn’t mean to come here. I wasn’t supposed to. It was… I made a mistake.” I said in a panic.

She took hold of my arms. “Hey, calm down. It’s okay. Is this your first time in any women’s bar?”

“Yes, and I…”

“And you’re a little overwhelmed,” she said with a laugh.

“It’s not funny. None of this is! You seem nice but I want to get home before something else happens.” I was afraid of my sudden attraction to her. Years ago I had suppressed that part of myself. I had pushed it down and buried it. I thought it had withered away and died inside of me. Instead it seemed to have taken root and thrived in the darkness I’d buried it in.

“If I give you my number will you call?” she asked.

I took the number, telling her I would, even though I wasn’t sure.

She took my face in her hands and kissed me. The feel of her tongue in my mouth made everything around me stop. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears as my heart pounded.

“I’d better go,” I said, not wanting to move.

She brushed her lips across my cheek again before letting me go.

“I’ll talk to you later,” I told her.

“I won’t hold my breath,” she said, before going back inside the club.

I rushed to my car, jumped in and sped off the lot. My face burned as I drove. It was hard to breathe. I opened the window and took deep breaths.

It was a week before I called her—a week of being consumed by thoughts of her lips and hands on me. She had lit a fire beneath my skin and awakened me. I knew if I saw her again I would lose myself. I prayed she wouldn’t answer. Then prayed she would. When she spoke, I got light-headed and had to sit down.

“How are you, Dory?”

“Fine, I’m fine.”

“I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Did you have to wrestle with yourself over it?”

“Not really.”

“When can I see you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, can I come to you?”

“No,” I answered quickly. “I’ll come to you.”

“Tonight?”

“No, tomorrow’s Saturday. It will be better.”

I took down her address. We hung up. I thought of her the rest of the night, wondering if I’d have the courage to visit her.

She lives in a shabby two-story building. I entered cautiously. She was on the top floor. I climbed the stairs, taking notice of the cracks in the walls. Pieces of conversation and the noise of a blaring television spilled out into the hall. I took a deep breath and knocked on her door. She opened it and stepped aside. It was a small apartment, sparsely furnished with secondhand items. On the walls were vibrant African prints. She offered me a beer and we sat on the couch and talked. I kept my eyes straight ahead, unable to look at her at first.

“I didn’t know clubs like that existed,” I said.

“It’s the only club like that in the city. It’s been there for over twenty years. I’m glad you stumbled in,” she said, taking hold of my chin and turning my face to her. “You have trouble looking at me, don’t you?”

“I’m just nervous.”

“Don’t be,” she said, leaning in to kiss me.

I eagerly kissed her back, taking her soft, lower lip into my mouth.

“I was hoping I’d have the chance to kiss you again,” she said, sweeping me into her arms.

I held on to her and looked over at the open door of the bedroom a few feet away. All I could make out was a corner of the bed. I didn’t want to end up there. I couldn’t. I told myself I would leave before it happened. But her long fingers went to work unbuttoning my blouse and then caressing my breasts. All I could do was sit there as she slipped them out of my bra and began to suck them. I couldn’t leave and didn’t want to. After a while I reached for her shirt, and undid the buttons. She wasn’t wearing a bra. I gazed at the deep purple of her nipples, in such stark contrast to the rest of her body.

“My god,” I said, running my knuckles across them. “Have they always been this color?”

“Yes, it’s their natural color,” she said sounding amused.

I leaned over and kissed them. Soon I was kissing every inch of her. She lay back on the sofa, letting me. I’m lost, I kept thinking. I’m lost. Then she got up from the couch.

“Let’s go in here,” she said.

I looked again into the bedroom, not sure what to do next. She took my hand and led me in. She turned on the light, undressed and climbed on the bed. “Are you coming?” she asked.

I stood there trying to convince myself to leave. But the beauty of her body, naked and stretched to its full length across the bed, pulled me in. I undressed and climbed in beside her. I ran my hands over her body and retraced the trail with my mouth. I was inexperienced, but it didn’t matter. I wanted her. I saved the coarse patch of hair between her legs for last. I parted it with my tongue, and sought out the tender arrowhead of flesh. I sucked it hungrily, half expecting something or someone to come crashing in on us and stop me. But there were only her throaty whispers encouraging me with “Yes, oh yes,” and “Please…” as she spread her legs farther apart for me. Like a glutton I stayed there, lapping away at her until I’d exhausted myself and my chin was wet.

Full of energy, Lorraine wrapped her legs around my waist, and with one quick turn, flipped me over on my back, straddling me. “You waited long enough to call. I was waiting to hear from you.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her.

“No, you’re not,” she said, sliding off of me, then parting my legs with her knee and pushing her fingers inside of me. “I’d like to make you sorry for keeping me waiting. Giving me that half-assed dance, then running away like a child. I should have dragged you by the hair into one of those filthy stalls and made you take me like this,” she said, thrusting her fingers deeper, “Miss Standoffish.”

I closed my eyes as her long fingers moved inside of me. I struggled to contain my body’s response as my back and ass rose from the bed.

“Settle down and say you’re sorry,” she said, moving her fingers deeper and faster.

“I’m sorry!”

“What?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I shouted.

“Good, because I wanted you here with me like this,” she said, slowing the movement of her fingers.

She set something loose inside of me. When I climaxed, my entire body shook. I reached up and pulled her down on top of me, and I cried the way a child cries when its sense of security has been shattered.

She gathered me up in her arms. “You’re okay. You’re fine, remember? Relax and let me do something sweet for you. She sucked at my breasts, then made a hot trail with her tongue between my legs and covered my pussy with her mouth.

I left her apartment that evening promising myself I’d never return, for fear of being lost or damned. I would not give in to my desire again, I told myself. I couldn’t risk it. For three days I stayed away, craving her, needing her flesh in my mouth—needing to see the crazy plum color of her nipples. I returned to her convinced I was under a spell. But also convinced I could shake it if I tried.

“Where’ve you been Dory?”

I couldn’t answer her. All I could do was undress and pull her into bed with me. She set it loose and it’s growing in me. No longer can I push it down and keep it buried. Each time I see her I swear it will be the last. Each time I’ve been wrong.

I am here now beside her on the soft couch in her apartment. She strokes my thigh and kisses my neck. I look over at the open bedroom door, wondering if I can keep from ending up in her bed again. But the more she touches me, the more I’m convinced a part of me is already there, spreading itself open, pulling the rest of me toward it.

STITCH AND BITCH

A. L. Simonds

Luisa was going to fall.

A split second before, she saw it coming. The world tilted; the ground rose to meet her.

She smacked down on her side, her hip and shoulder catching the worst of it, and slid a few inches down the asphalt ramp. Her skateboard sailed out of sight. The impact flashed across her vision and shook her nerves. She could have sworn she heard bells tolling.

She had to lie there, just for a couple of seconds, in order to remember how to breathe.

When she struggled up—first onto her palms, then her knees, then to her feet—she rolled her shoulders and shook away the worst of the pain.

“Ow, dude,” she said. “Ow.”

As the pain cleared, she realized that she did hear church bells, over on the university campus, tolling six o’clock.

She’d asked Charlie to watch the time for her, but, typical Charlie, he’d wandered down to the hot dog truck and forgotten.

She’d been so absorbed in working on her heelflip that the seasons could have turned, barbarians invaded and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Now it was already six and she was going to be late.

Cursing, she jumped to her feet, shaking off the reverberating pain of her fall, grabbed her bag from under the bleachers and kicked off her board.

She passed Charlie as she came out of the skate park and hit the sidewalk. He waved cheerfully at her and she had to swallow the urge to stop and give him a piece of her mind.

She’d just be later if she did that.

So she pushed faster, sailing off the curb into the street. Cars were hard to contend with when she was on her board, but they were big and easy to navigate around, unlike pedestrians, who were both slow and unpredictable. As she careened down quiet side streets, the low evening sun warmed her side and cheeks. She zigzagged through the lengthening shadows, breathing through the lingering ache of her fall, then turned a hard right onto Ossington Avenue.

She didn’t have time to stop and change her shirt, let alone shower.

She caught a draft and zoomed forward.

“Just like clockwork,” Toni, her boss, said when Priya arrived at the shop. “You’re a marvel, you know that?”

Priya grinned as she stowed her knapsack under the counter. “All in the planning.”

Toni shook her head. “You take planning to a whole new level.”

Priya allotted herself fifteen minutes on Tuesdays and Thursdays to walk from her seminar on campus to the yarn store, which was a pretty generous window, but not overly so. It was good to have the time to let the seminar sift and settle into her mind before she had to switch gears.

She was usually at least five minutes early. Today was no different.

“Quiet today,” Toni said from the back, where she was eating a takeout dinner.

Priya looked around the store, at all the vibrant colors and cozy furniture. “I’m sure it’ll pick up.”

Toni slurped some sesame noodles. “And then we won’t be able to get rid of them.”

Tonight was Stitch and Bitch. A regular crowd always dropped in for gossip, advice, and crafting time away from families, jobs and other responsibilities.

As the regulars arrived, Priya manned the counter to sell last-minute needles and splurge skeins of yarn. When she was not needed there, she tidied the shelves, returning stray balls to their rightful places, reorganizing lace-weight and sock-weight skeins, straightening and neatening the disarray from an ordinary business day.

“You don’t pay her enough,” one of the regulars told Toni when Priya emerged to join the group around the table in the center of the shop. “Look at her work, work, work!”

Priya ducked her head and focused on finding the one ball of blue sock yarn missing its label. Toni did not actually pay her at all; Priya kept the books and helped out three nights a week in exchange for wholesale prices on yarn and the bachelor apartment over the shop.

She had been lucky to get that deal. When her fellowship at the university fell through, she’d had to find a few part-time jobs just to cover tuition; a place to live had started to seem like an unattainable luxury. Although her apartment was little more than a creaky half-converted attic with questionable plumbing, she wasn’t about to complain.

Finally, when Toni had nagged her enough, and there truly was no more yarn to tidy or needles to inventory, Priya joined the group at the table. She pulled out her latest project, oatmeal-colored yarn flecked with green and blue, which she had unraveled from an unwanted sweater. She had spent an entire weekend pulling the sweater apart, skeining up the yarn, washing it and hanging it, weighted down with soup cans, to dry.

“Still doing the recycling?” Gillian asked. She was a newcomer to the group, and liked to wield her husband’s corporate Amex card for the finest silk and cashmere weights.

“Aren’t you worried about,” her nose wrinkled slightly, “pests?”

Priya shook out the sock she was knitting from the yarn and extracted the fifth needle from the center of the ball. “I didn’t get the sweater out of the garbage or anything.”

“Just from a piece of garbage!” Toni put in, and rubbed Priya’s arm.

“My ex,” Priya explained to Gillian, who looked both puzzled and nauseated. “That’s all she means. The yarn came from a sweater I made my ex.”

Gillian tossed back her impeccably bobbed hair. “Well, wherever it came from, I don’t see why you bother.”

“I like it,” Priya said, and pressed her lips together. She could have said more—recycling the yarn was therapy for her: reclaiming what she had given to Amy, cleaning it up and making it into something new, all of that helped her not only move on, but mark her movement, measure it as she grew farther away.

After her breakup, she gave up her ambition to become a theater director, and went back to school for a degree in elementary education. She promised herself that any new relationship, if there ever were one, would fit in with her new goals. Simple, careful and thoughtful were going to be her guiding lights.

As well, recycling the yarn was frugal. And if she hadn’t had knitting in her hands, she couldn’t be responsible for what she might do.

Gillian turned her attention to someone else now, an older woman named Catherine, who was struggling with making a cable. Priya sighed, happy to have a chance to work a few rounds on her sock.

The sock would be knee-high, with a plain foot and leg in a trellis lace pattern. She loved the way kneesocks looked on a woman’s legs, at once rustic and sexy. The wool and lace interplayed delicately, the wool robust and reassuring, the lace subtle and coquettish, revealing small patches of skin like light dappling and splashing through the leaves of a tree on a summer afternoon. The combinations and contrasts were what captured her fancy: smooth skin and slightly scratchy wool, nudity and covering, the curve of a calf and strong line of a shin, maybe a leather high-heeled shoe over the snug sock.

Just then, the bell on the shop door rang and Luisa crashed inside, a riot of color and wind and noise, skateboard in hand, corkscrew curls flowing around her face like a lion’s mane. Her face was flushed, her smile wide and bright as she greeted everyone with high fives and quick hugs, pecks on the cheek and squeezes of the hand.

Luisa had a way of entering a room as if she were donning it. The space shifted and molded itself around her, arranged itself so that she was always at the center.

“How’s it hanging, Gill?” Luisa asked as she dug in her ratty messenger bag for her yarn and other materials. “Having any luck with that crepe recipe?”

Even sour and pinched Gillian smiled when Luisa collapsed into the chair next to her and knocked her elbow into Gillian’s side. Gillian smoothed back her hair and sighed. “I’m working on it, but…”

“I took the worst digger just now,” Luisa announced, tossing down a lumpy ball of yarn and her crochet hook. “Fell on my ass like some kind of newbie.”

The ladies around the table tut-tutted in sympathy and asked for details, shared the names of their chiropractors, and offered advice about warm baths versus cold, compresses versus ibuprofen.

Priya set down her sock. “You probably want to wash up, right? Come with me.”

Luisa tilted her head, grinning at Priya, then scraped back her chair and bounded toward the little washroom behind the counter.

It was barely wide enough for a sink and the commode. Somehow, Priya and Luisa squeezed into it.

Priya turned on the faucet. “You came right from the skate park?”

Luisa bit her lip and held up her shirt so Priya could press soapy, wet paper towels to her abraded hip and ribs.

“Pobrecita,” Priya murmured. The first time she’d spoken Spanish, Luisa had staggered and pretended to faint, as if Desi people didn’t live all over the Caribbean, including Trinidad, where Priya’s parents were born.

There was no broken skin, just darkening bruises and the imprint of gravel overlaying the friction burn from Luisa’s slide. Priya swabbed it off again.

Luisa was looking at her, lower lip gone white in her teeth, curls crowding her face.

“What?” Priya asked when she was finished.

Luisa smiled, slow and shy, and leaned back, foot up on the toilet lid.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Luisa tipped up her chin and reached for Priya, managing to graze her shoulder. Her shirt was still hiked up to her armpits. The fabric was twisted across her breasts; one cup of her bra was held to the strap with a safety pin.

Priya plucked at the pin and cupped her palm around Luisa’s breast. She leaned in and rubbed her face in Luisa’s hair. “Stinky, stinky.”

Luisa breathed in sharply. “Nah,” she said, her hand going around Priya’s waist. “Just… alive. Or something. Yeah.”

Priya snorted with laughter and kissed Luisa quickly before pulling away. “We should get back out there.”

“Don’t wanna.” Luisa curled two fingers into Priya’s belt loops. “Do I have to?”

Priya kissed the tip of her chin, then bit down lightly. “Yes, you do. Be good.”

“Fine,” Luisa grumbled, and tugged down her shirt. “But you owe me.”

Rolling her eyes, Priya slapped her lightly on the leg before opening the door.

Luisa’s version of being good, however, was more than slightly obvious. Although she kept up several conversations for the rest of the evening, her eyes rarely left Priya. She told jokes, laughed and all the while tracked Priya’s movements around the shop.

While the group became absorbed in helping Catherine untangle a mess, Priya helped a customer who had just wandered in. They selected a nice hank of gray wool and a set of large needles. Priya showed her how to cast on and start knitting a simple scarf. She knew Luisa was watching her. The attention, subtle but persistent, warmed her. She became more conscious of her gestures, more careful with her words, as if she were performing, privately, for an audience of one.

When the newcomer was settled in, frowning over her needles, Priya started cashing out the register. Luisa interrupted her, waving a set of German stainless-steel needles, double-pointed, five in all, just two millimeters in gauge.

“You don’t knit socks.” Priya slid the package back to Luisa. The set was exactly the sort she longed to use, but she had never been able to justify the price. “These are hard-core.”

“Hard-core,” Luisa repeated. Before Priya could stop her, she had torn open the package and fanned the needles out, running her fingertip over their lethal-looking tips. She pressed the tips into the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. The points made tiny, perfect dents. “Sounds about right.”

Priya swallowed hard.

Luisa grinned. “Ring ’em up.”

“They’re eighteen dollars.”

Shrugging, Luisa rooted around in her front pocket and extracted a twenty. She only ever paid with cash that came crumpled and damp from the depths of her pockets. Priya was not entirely certain where her money came from, or how regularly she was paid, if at all. Her status as a pro skater sounded impressive, but all it seemed to mean was that she got a lot of free stuff and occasional travel vouchers. Nothing steady, nothing predictable. This uncertainty was the only constant when it came to Luisa. She didn’t seem to have a permanent address; she crashed with various friends and acquaintances, an ever-changing and expanding population of skateboarders, musicians, self-appointed artists, and hangers-on.

Toni was excited that Luisa was taking up sock knitting. “It’s addictive! Like chocolate,” she declared. “Once you turn your first heel, you’ll never go back!”

Luisa nodded amiably. “Heard that, yes.”

Another woman leaned in to confide, “My husband married me for my socks.” She paused and waggled her eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”

Cocking her head, looking more than a little puzzled, Luisa just smiled. “That’s something to consider, huh, Priya?”

“Sure it is,” Priya said, not looking up. Her chest felt tight, her face hot.

The needles were still on the counter. They pointed like daggers at Priya, promising something irresistible.

Luisa had met Priya at the crochet basics class last spring. Her sister was pregnant and wanted Luisa, probably to piss off their mom, to be the godmother. So Luisa had set herself the task of learning how to make sweaters and booties and other tiny, cute things for the impending infant. After nearly strangling in cheap plastic yarn from the dollar store, she decided to take a class so she’d actually know what she was doing.

Priya taught the class with grace and good humor. She never lost her cool, not even when Luisa lost control of her crochet hook and sent it flying at Priya’s face.

Afterward, pretty sure that she had felt a vibe between them, Luisa had asked Priya out for coffee.

Priya blinked, opened her planner, and said after a lengthy consultation, “How about next Wednesday at ten?”

Not only was that a long way off, it was really early in the morning, as far as Luisa was concerned. She twirled the crochet hook between her fingers and gave Priya her best flirtatious smile. “I was thinking more like right now?”

“No.” Priya closed her planner and set it down on the table. “I have plans.”

Luisa would come to learn that Priya always had plans; eventually, Luisa found that fascinating. Here was this beautiful girl, she thought, smart as a whip, working three jobs and going to graduate school, and she barely let herself ever relax. Or, Luisa suspected, sleep.

But back then, Luisa figured she knew how to take a hint, and stepped away. “Okay, well. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

She was nearly out the door when Priya grasped her wrist—she had very strong hands, probably because of all the knitting. “If you’d like, there’s Stitch and Bitch the day after tomorrow. We could meet then.”

Luisa had no idea what that was, but she liked the name right away. After adjusting to the sight of a roomful of suburban-looking moms and grandmas, she came to like the people a lot, too. She spent so much of her life skating and hanging with dudes that it was nice, almost restful, to kick back with females and work on cutesy baby accessories.

Her friends claimed she was going soft, even as they began demanding toques and fingerless gloves from her.

Maybe she was soft, but if they’d ever met Priya, they would understand. She wasn’t the type of lady you gave up on.

When the last of the crowd had trailed out the door, Toni turned off the lights and started locking up. Priya got out the push broom and swept, starting just in front of the washroom and working outward into the main area of the shop floor.

“I can do that,” she told Toni, who was putting the chairs up on the table. “You should go home. You’ve had a long day.”

Toni rubbed the back of her neck and didn’t argue. After she had gone, Priya finished sweeping and ran the feather duster over the tallest shelves before she opened the washroom door.

Luisa stumbled out, blinking against the dark. “Dude, what took so long?”

Her impatience was equal parts charming and exasperating. Priya kissed her hard, like she’d been longing to do all night. Her mouth ached for it, and Luisa gurgled a little into the contact. Her hands ran restlessly up and down Priya’s back, pulling Priya closer, holding her in place as she returned the kiss.

The broom fell away as Priya backed Luisa up against the shelves, and the pillowy, welcoming warmth of balls of chunky merino yarn.

Priya cupped Luisa’s neck with one hand while the other pushed under her shirt and curved around her bruised waist. Luisa hissed into the kiss, her teeth sudden and sharp on Priya’s tongue, before she relaxed.

They moved well together; they had right from the start. Priya was a few inches taller, and Luisa seemed to like looking up at her, leaning back, opening up for her touches. In turn, Priya reveled in the chance to touch this girl, twist her arms up over her head and hold her there, teasing her breasts. It never took long before Lu wheezed and pleaded, face flushed dark as liver, eyes glittering, sweat spangling her collarbone, desperately twisting, trying to find more contact.

Priya’s ex, Amy, didn’t like being what she called “pushed around.” It was both a political and emotional principle and point of honor for her that they were equal in all things, from their joint checking account to the number of orgasms they each had, as well as time spent on each one.

Luisa, however, gasped and grinned, whatever Priya did, pushing into her touch and asking for more. She could take a lot of teasing, nipples pinched and tugged, her mound and thighs lightly stroked and fondled until goose bumps broke out all over her body, until her breath caught in her throat and she grew so wet and desperate that she could be entered in a single slow thrust.

“Harder,” Lu would say whenever Priya hesitated. And she did hesitate, especially in the early days, half-drunk on the fact that it was okay to do this, half-nauseated by her need to do more. “Please, harder. More.”

That permission, phrased as a request, was what Priya needed. Her acceptance, her need for this was astounding. Hearing the rattle of her breath and feeling Lu’s damp, flushed skin was enough to make Priya ache. She had to clamp down, clench and release, ride her own need.

Tonight, as Luisa trembled before her, the traffic outside threw long, angular bright shadows across the ceiling, down the shelves of yarn, and illuminated her hands. Luisa’s rosewood skin was blanched momentarily, then flushed again, darkness returning as Priya ran her teeth along the curve of her hip.

Luisa pushed her hand into Priya’s hair, clutched her tight and thrust her hips. Priya outlined the jut of Luisa’s pelvic bone with her tongue, then her teeth, before biting down and sucking hard. Luisa moaned.

She whimpered when Priya pulled away, but bit it off when Priya hushed her. When Priya returned from the counter, Luisa reached for her with blind, searching hands.

Priya stood out of reach until Luisa had quieted and stilled. Then, with the care of a master calligrapher, she drew the tip of one needle around Luisa’s nipple, down the swell of her small breast, to the bite mark. The sound Luisa made was nearly indescribable. It was greedy and choked, a moan and plea rutting together.

“Shhh,” Priya said, not expecting Luisa to comply. She pinched the bite mark, then circled the needle over the tender skin.

Luisa banged her head against the shelf. She bit down on her lip, her chest heaving. Her knees started to buckle, but she locked her stance.

Priya teased her for as long as she liked. She drew Art Nouveau swirls and curlicues, best suited to a Tiffany lamp, over Lu’s warm, pliable skin. She strummed the stiletto point against one nipple, then the other, until they were both peaked painfully hard, the breast’s skin puckered and goose pimpled.

She scratched runes and swept signatures across Luisa’s taut skin, turned her around and did the same across her lower back, down the swell of her hips, until Luisa sank to her knees, a sob muffled against her arm.

She trembled and shook when Priya knelt behind her, a length of cotton yarn from the bargain bin in her hands. For a moment when Priya tugged at Luisa’s arms, nothing happened, but then they rose over her head and Priya looped the yarn around Luisa’s bony wrists, then eased her down onto the floor.

“Had enough?” she asked, straddling Luisa’s thighs.

Luisa struggled to raise her head and meet Priya’s eyes. The sharp curve of her smile was a dare and an acknowledgment. “Nope.”

The curls between her legs were slick to the touch. She shuddered, hard, and let out a wracking sigh when Priya slipped her hand through them and curled her thumb around Luisa’s clit.

“How about now?”

Luisa thrust up to meet the touch, canting her hips. Priya’s index finger slid down between her inner lips to circle her hole. “More,” Luisa said, the word half-gargled, “you’re so good…”

Perhaps Priya should not have been so aroused by praise, but it felt so good, to no longer be bound by the “rules,” to make someone, especially someone as hot, as wild as Luisa feel this good. To be trusted like this was intoxicating. Two fingers inside, she twisted and thrust. Luisa moaned in response, struggled to sit up and reached for Priya. They kissed again, teeth clacking and tongues pulsing, as Lu fucked herself on Priya’s hand, desperately asking for more, needing all of Priya to be in her, to answer and resolve the howling Priya had created. Two fingers, then three, then four, tightly wrapped on each other and crushed on all sides: they struggled to move, to reach ever deeper, as Luisa came, wet and cascading over Priya’s wrist, down her arm.

Priya’s body hurt all the way through, like her muscles were barbed wire wound around her bones. Luisa clung to her, wobbling, butting her face against Priya’s throat. Priya let her head fall back as Luisa licked down her neck, sucked on the knobs of her clavicle, then nibbled across the rise of her breasts. There was a moment, and then another, where Priya’s pulse thundered between her legs, wrenched her nearly double. Luisa grinned and grazed Priya’s mound, then her lips, with her knuckles.

Luisa pinched Priya’s clit between her index finger and thumb, and the other woman snapped upright. Priya clenched and thrust against Luisa’s palm, seeking sharp edges of calluses and rocky bumps of knuckle. She rubbed herself nearly raw, compelled by the need for release so deep it seemed to be squeezing her lungs and closing up her throat. Luisa bit her shoulder, mouthed the sharp pain and bit again, pressing ever closer as Priya came. The waves and rattling throbs drowned out all the pent-up tension, soothed away the ache of desire, and she wanted nothing more than to open herself back up to Luisa’s teeth and fists, and do it all over again.

Sex wasn’t supposed to be like this. Shame hurt as much as any bite, and somehow, perversely, felt just as good. Priya gasped for air, riding the rippling aftershocks, and tried not to question herself.

She succeeded, but not for long.

When Priya left the library around lunchtime, she had to stop abruptly when a skateboard flew across her path and tumbled off the curb. Only two days had passed since Stitch and Bitch; she was not due to see Luisa for another three or four days.

“Hey,” Luisa said, feigning surprise. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“What’re you doing here?”

Luisa shrugged. Her legs dangled against the low stone wall on which she sat, like a tramp riding a train. She looked out of place on campus, a little too dark, a little too wild and messy amid the ivy-covered walls and quiet footpaths. As soon as she thought that, Priya cursed herself for it. By the same token, she too could be considered too dark.

“Sorry,” Priya said, “I’m just… distracted.”

“It’s okay. I—” Luisa started.

At the same time, Priya continued, “What are you doing here?”

They both stopped, then opened their mouths to speak again. Finally, waving off objections, Luisa mimed zipping shut her lips and motioned Priya to go on.

“Surprised to see you here, that’s all,” Priya said. “Is everything all right?”

Luisa slid off the wall and hopped from foot to foot. “Everything’s great! I wanted to show you something.”

Priya didn’t like the sound of that. Luisa’s enthusiasm was always contagious, but it was also occasionally dangerous. Carefully she asked, “What did you want to show me?”

Bending at the waist, Luisa yanked up her shirt and pointed at her bare hip.

There, where the other night Priya had left a line of hickies and scratches, was a much more permanent mark. A dark-inked tattoo, shiny ink on swollen, painfully red skin, captured Priya’s marks, made them indelible.

Luisa straightened up. “Isn’t it awesome?”

“It’s…” Priya didn’t know what to say. She felt horrified and baffled all at the same time. Proud, too, but that wasn’t the point. “It’s permanent.”

“Yeah!” Luisa nodded rapidly, beaming a grin and crinkled eyes. She was so beautiful, if reckless. “Pretty much the whole point.”

Gradually, as Priya stood there, mouth open, frozen into silence and worry, Luisa’s good mood dimmed. It wavered, then flickered, and finally, just winked out.

She folded her arms across her chest. “What did I do now?”

She made it sound as if Priya were always taking her to task. That wasn’t the case. Maybe it was at times, but she was so heedless, so impulsive, that someone had to say something, haul her back from the brink.

“Nothing,” Priya replied. “Sorry. Do what you want.”

“I wanted to do it for us,” Luisa said. She sounded sullen.

That was Priya’s cue to make nice. She should apologize, cheer up Luisa.

She didn’t have the time, however, not with midterms approaching and her next shift at the grocery store across town starting in less than half an hour. “For us?” she said. “What does that even mean?”

Luisa blinked up at her. There were tears on her lashes, and she looked heartbroken. Priya wasn’t a monster; the sight made her chest feel like it had caved in.

“Us,” Luisa said. Her voice rose to make it a question. “Us?”

Priya took in a breath, then another, reminding herself to keep the big picture in view. She really liked Lu. The sex was fantastic, but she was nearly still a kid. Whatever age her ID said, she acted like a teenage boy. She wasted her money on tattoos and six-packs of beer and punk concerts.

“There’s no us,” Priya said. It was the truth, wasn’t it? “We just fool around.”

For a long time, Luisa said nothing. She looked very small, round-shouldered, and slight, dwarfed by her glorious riot of hair and baggy T-shirt. “If that’s what you think—”

She did not finish. Priya saw her swallow, watched the sharp line of her jaw as she turned away and dropped her skateboard to the sidewalk, and still, she could neither move nor speak.

At the end of that week, Luisa went down to North Carolina to film a video for her sneaker sponsor. She stayed in Charlotte when the shoot was over. Her tattoo scabbed over, then the scabs fell off. It itched all the time, and she scratched it hard enough to make it scab again.

She wished that she skated the regular orientation. Then maybe she could fall and just scrape the damn thing off.

“Big talk,” she could almost hear Charlie say.

He was right, of course. She didn’t want to lose the tattoo. She didn’t know what she wanted to lose.

Priya earned a (disappointing, but solid) B+ on one of her midterms, and an A- on her seminar short paper. She took over the group presentation, not quite trusting the others in her group to carry their weight. She picked up two extra shifts at the grocery store and maintained her schedule at the yarn shop.

Three Stitch and Bitches passed, and there was no sign of Luisa. Priya told herself it was probably for the best. Luisa was so flighty and flaky that she made Amy—an actress and dancer, of all things—seem sensible and down to earth. She was the last person that Priya needed in her life. She was charismatic, sure, and funny and sweet, but she was hardly going anywhere. Indeed, she seemed perfectly content to coast through life on her skateboard. Priya’s life was much more organized, calm and well-ordered now that Luisa had disappeared. The calm reminded her of nothing so much as the lifting of a migraine or the effects of Novocain: the pain, or Luisa, might still be somewhere out there, but she could no longer feel a thing.

Ignorance was, it appeared, numbness. Not bliss. That fact was tolerable, but not exactly optimal.

Luisa returned to Toronto when the leaves were dead and gone. Black branches scoured the gray sky, and snow swirled in the air. She skated indoors most of the time now, rising earlier in order to get the most out of the ramps before kids got off school.

The afternoon of the first storm, when the city was abuzz about expected snowfall, Charlie hip-checked her as they left the ramp and headed to the diner for lunch.

“Where’s the toque you owe me, Venceremos? I’m going to die of frostbite and it’ll all be your fault. I can’t wait much longer.”

It was a small comment, the first time any of the guys had mentioned her knitting and crocheting since she came back from North Carolina, but it stopped Luisa cold.

“You’re right,” she told him, and hung a sharp left to get to the subway station.

“I am?” Charlie stood on the corner, arms out, yelling after her. “What did I say?”

The first thick, wet flakes were gathering thickly on the sidewalks when she left the subway station and dashed for the yarn shop. Half the businesses on this stretch had already closed; the dusk was blue and gray, the color of old newspapers and older bruises. She slipped and stumbled in her worn sneakers, trying to hurry, hoping she could catch Priya.

Priya was uptight and bossy and every other dark, angry thing Luisa had mentally called her over the past month. But she was also intense and melancholy and she kissed like an angel.

Lu had no idea what she was going to say.

But she had to try. She was a woman who could practice the same flip for two weeks, all day, every day, all night too, and fall on her ass every time until, finally, she landed it. And then she practiced it more, kept at it, stubborn and bloody minded, until the motion was as easy and familiar as walking up stairs. As knitting a scarf, as kissing a girl.

As she pushed open the shop door, a gust of frigid wind blew her inside. Luisa slipped in the puddle on the tiled floor and collapsed against the door.

Priya and Toni were standing at the counter, a pile of invoices between them.

Luisa untangled her long red scarf from around her neck and held it out as she walked up to the counter. The wool was soaked with her sweat and the snow; it was the first thing she had knit for herself, and there were holes where she had looped the yarn too many times, and knots where she’d lost stitches. She lay the sad, damp thing on the counter, arranging it into the approximate shape of a heart.

“It hurts without you,” she told Priya, and did not look at Toni. She had to get this out. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

Priya’s eyes were dark, her mouth pursed. She looked a little thin, hollow-cheeked, like her clothes were a size too big. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I…”

“I want it to hurt with you,” Luisa said, and wrapped the scarf around one of Priya’s hands. “Does that make sense?”

Toni muffled a noise against her fist and left them alone.

Priya still hadn’t said anything beyond “I’m sorry.” Outside the big plate-glass window, the snow sleeted down.

“Don’t be sorry,” Luisa said, and tugged her hands until Priya leaned over the counter, their foreheads almost touching. “Just say yes.”

“I made you some socks,” Priya said at last. Her breath was warm on Luisa’s cold cheeks, her lips very soft. She laughed a little, self-consciously, and Luisa kissed her.

“I’m sorry,” she said later as she led Luisa up the narrow stairs to her apartment.

Laughing, Luisa slapped her ass. “Make it up to me. Make it hurt really good.”

CALL FOR SUBMISSION

Nairne Holtz

As a writer, it wasn’t uncommon for me to receive Calls for Submission. But when Cyn Byrne invited me to submit a story to her anthology of lesbian sexual fantasies, I did wonder whether the request was strictly professional.

We had met a few months earlier in a city neither of us lived in, where Cyn was launching Dyke Dimensions, a collection of lesbian speculative fiction. When I arrived at the bar where the launch was being held, I introduced myself to Cyn, who was sitting at a table with a shiny stack of books beside her—copies of the anthology just arrived from the printer. I was surprised to discover she was black, partly because I was white and tend to assume others are, and partly because she wrote science fiction, which is white geek-boy territory. She was, however, a bit of a nerd, a chunky woman in khakis and a black Schrödinger’s cat T-shirt. Through her wire-framed glasses, she was staring blankly at me.

How could she not know the names of her contributors? “I wrote the story about the mutant heart,” I reminded her.

“Right!” She grinned at me. “I loved that story. I read it over and over again.”

I inhaled her compliment like a glittery recreational drug, something with unknown side effects. “Thanks.” The story had been my one foray into genre fiction.

Another woman approached Cyn, and I left. Later in the evening, after we had read our pieces and autographed books for the two people who bought them, I asked Cyn to dance. She hesitated before taking my hand, and I wondered if she had a partner. We boogied to Madonna and then a slow song came on. I stood uncertainly, but Cyn placed her arms around my back and drew me close. I could smell her cologne and feel her breasts and belly press up against me. Inside my padded bra I felt my nipples react.

Cyn said, “You’re tiny.” Her tone was both protective and full of awe.

“I’m taller than you,” I retorted. I had just gotten out of a relationship and wasn’t sure if I was ready to submit to the attraction flowing between us.

“That’s only because you’re wearing heels,” she replied.

When the song ended, she picked up my hand, gave it a reverent kiss, and said, “It was nice to meet you.”

Now I was being dismissed. Apparently, she wasn’t prepared to submit either.

At home, I emailed Cyn, but she didn’t reply. A month later, she invited me to be her Facebook friend, and I checked out her profile. I discovered she was “in a relationship” and had about four hundred friends. I wasn’t going to be some cheap Facebook conquest—I ignored her invitation. Then the email came, asking me to submit a sexual fantasy to her anthology, and I reconsidered the Facebook invite. Did I want to miss future calls for submission? As I clicked on ACCEPT, I told myself I was joining her network for what were strictly professional reasons. But when I saw her relationship status had changed to “in an open relationship,” I felt an unbidden thrill.

I began writing a sexual fantasy for her. Writing and rewriting it put me into a sexual fever, my thoughts a non-stop erotic cabaret, blinking lights, on, on, on. Cyn was my muse, even though a chubby black stud hardly fit the traditional image of a Grecian goddess. Sometimes, after writing for an hour I would lie down and finger myself to a climax, a wisp of an orgasm because I was so excited.

I sent my story to Cyn, who sent me a reply the next day: I want this story!

But did she want me? And if so, how available was she? I emailed her to say the story was hers if she sent me a contract, and got a response with an attachment. I expected it to be a contract, but instead she had sent me a story. Since I was a freelance editor, she wondered, would I be kind enough to give her some constructive criticism?

I printed her story and settled onto my couch to read it. Bombs detonate, superpowers fall, the human genome is nothing but a toy for scientists now, but Vegas is still the place to gamble and get laid. The government hasn’t really cleaned up Nevada since the last nuclear attack. To go to the desert you have to be genetically modified to withstand cancer (who would have thought nuclear war would be what taught us to cure cancer?), but for a cyborg like me whose body is part machine, it’s not a problem.

I read on. The cyborg had been hired to track down a stripper in Las Vegas. To get close to her, the cyborg paid for a lap dance, and then handcuffed her quarry. Ostensibly, the cyborg was in charge, but the dancer’s resistance made their roles jump like summer lightning—moving, glowing electrons. It was obvious to me that Cyn, like me, enjoyed a good power struggle.

It felt like Cyn was talking to me through her story, using it as a way to flirt, but I wasn’t sure if we were compatible. In both the story she sent and her story in Dyke Dimensions, her butch protagonists were tops who didn’t come. Did Cyn always have to be in control? Was she a stone butch? When I sent her my editing suggestions, I couldn’t resist adding a postscript: “Do your butch characters ever get done?”

Cyn thanked me for my comments on her story and ignored the postscript. I had to have an answer, if only to improve my fantasy life, so I went to a gay bookstore and pawed through Cyn’s work, looking for a scene where a femme makes love to a butch… but couldn’t find one.

Instead, I spotted Cyn on the cover of a lesbian magazine holding hands with a woman I recognized, Vixen Swift, the illustrious lesbian romance author. Vixen’s red hair had been tucked into a classic chignon, and she was wearing one of her signature corsets with her large breasts on full display. The article described Cyn and Vixen as a “celesbian” couple. Apparently, they had been hand-fasted for a number of years. With a shudder, I dropped the magazine onto the rack. Vixen and I had been introduced on at least three occasions, and each time she had to be reminded of who I was.

I went over to another section and picked up Vixen’s latest release, and brought it to the counter along with Chrome Stud, the first book in Cyn’s cyberpunk series.

At home, I began to read Vixen’s novel, Soul Mate, which featured a “playa” who meets “a titian-haired queen with piercing blue eyes.” (Nouns in Vixen’s novel were always accompanied by a convoy of adjectives.) When I finished the book, I felt like throwing it across the room. The story was so formulaic: a bad boi, who is afraid of intimacy because she was once fucked over by a heartless bitch, is saved by the love of a good femme.

Since when were lesbians afraid of intimacy anyway? I wished there were women my age—midthirties—who didn’t carry any more baggage than one bad relationship, whose only reason for not having a partner was fear of being hurt and not fear of responsibility.

I also wondered why Vixen, if she was in an open relationship, wrote such sappy, moralistic books. I had to give her some credit: the sex scenes, with which her novel brimmed, were spicy and accomplished. Especially the ones where the queen made love to her boi by going down on her while fucking her with three fingers, a scenario that sounded vaguely familiar.

I plucked Dyke Dimensions from my bookshelf and reread Vixen’s sex scene between a vampire and a werewolf. The vampire licked the werewolf and penetrated her with three fingers.

Was this how Cyn liked to be done? Reality often squirms beneath the stories writers choose to tell, and we give it away when we repeat ourselves.

When Cyn sent me a contract for my story, she asked if I would be attending Good for Her, a conference for “lesbian popular fiction.”

I write unpopular fiction, I replied. I’m not a big fan of genre stuff.

Her reply was defensive. By condemning genre fiction, I think you’re missing out on the importance of myths and heroes, which set moral examples and spiritually nourish us.

Right, she didn’t care what I thought of her writing—she was worried about my undernourished soul. Time to reassure her I did respect her. Tales of larger-than-life cyborg dykes saving the world are fun, but romances are cheesy.

A one-line response arrived. Were you just dumped or something?

When I read this, I clicked my laptop shut. I hadn’t been dumped but might as well have been. My lover had behaved so badly, she had given me no choice but to end the relationship. I didn’t answer her email, but a few days later checked her Facebook status, which seemed to refer to me: Cyn is wondering if she alienated a certain literary writer.

I sent her an email. I did recently end a relationship. My ex was untrustworthy, which tells you about both her limitations and my own for choosing her. I want to read (and write) books that more honestly reflect people’s flaws.

She replied within hours. So you’d rather read the kitchen sink realism of my life growing up in a dumpy bungalow with my homophobic Seventh Day Adventist white mom and black dad? Or hear about what it was like to look after my developmentally delayed brother who, last Thanksgiving, ratted out Pops on his trips to strip joints?

This was precisely the kind of book I wanted to read. Yes.

In May, the city where Good for Her was held was already hot and steamy, and the air smelled like flowers. On the first night of the conference, I found myself sitting on a patio sipping a generously alcoholic mint julep. On the sidewalk in front of me, a huge oak tree arose out of the concrete, splitting it open, and buskers were crowded around the tree, slapping bongo drums. I was in a hipster neighborhood with vintage clothing stores and juice bars, barbershops and head shops, a place in which the black and white counterculture convened. Earlier in the evening, at the opening reception, Cyn had been the sole black woman. Her features, which I could see clearly for the first time in the brightly lit hall, weren’t a smooth blend of white and black but a more discordant one. Her face was long and her slender nose jutted out, while her hair and lips were more typically Afro-American. It occurred to me that her writing about cyborgs was a metaphor for her own identity. Vixen popped over while I was chatting with Cyn, and was unexpectedly friendly to me. I was surprised to hear them call each other Cynthia and Victoria. When I remarked upon it, Vixen wagged her finger. “Vixen isn’t me; she’s my drag queen persona!”

Cyn said, “Never confuse the writer with her art.”

“Except they aren’t unrelated,” I told them.

Vixen proceeded to describe an anthology she was putting together about black and white queer relationships, and Cyn interrupted to ask me if I was interested in submitting to it. “I’ve only slept with one black woman,” I said.

“Was she any good?” Cyn asked.

“She was,” I replied. “But she refused to remove her baseball cap during sex. She even slept in it. It was very strange.”

“Maybe she was having a bad-hair day,” Cyn said.

“Or she didn’t want to put a do-rag on in front of a white chick,” Vixen added with a meaningful glance at Cyn.

“Interesting,” I said. “That wouldn’t have occurred to me.” Being white sometimes made me feel stupid, or worse, self-conscious.

As I sipped the last of my mint julep, my thoughts extended farther back to Shawna-of-the-baseball-cap, whom I had met at a gay club. I wasn’t terribly experienced, and she had picked me up. I had seen her at the same club the week before and couldn’t stop looking at her: she was a slender, elegant, very dark-skinned woman wearing a mustard-colored suit. It was as though she had materialized from an earlier era; she only needed a fedora. The night she picked me up she was more ordinarily dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a backward baseball cap over her short hair. As an excuse to talk to her, I had shyly given her a flyer for an event I was organizing. Later, as I was unlocking my bike and about to head home, she ran up to me and asked if I wanted to go to her place. “Okay,” I said.

Although we were both timid and complete strangers, we proceeded to have surprisingly satisfactory sex. Then we blurted out our life stories, bringing forth our most severe traumas like tiny, wriggling birds in the palms of our hands. The level of our intimacy both astonished me and felt like a terrifying responsibility. She wanted to hang out the next day, and I bolted. Feelings, which I definitely had for her, were liquid nitrogen, and it was safest to wait until the white fog of them dissipated. But I waited too long, and she hooked up with someone else. We remained friendly, but then I stopped seeing her around. One day I did run into her, and she updated me on her life. Unable to deal with being black and gay, she had drifted back to her island community, fucked a guy who had no interest in being a parent, and had a child. She didn’t seem happy about these choices, and I felt bad for her.

On the last morning of the Good for Her conference, I was drying myself off from a shower when I heard a knock on my door. Grabbing my bathrobe, I opened the door, expecting to see the chambermaid. Instead, Cyn stood before me.

She glanced at my bare feet and legs. “Is this a good time?”

“It’s fine.” What was she doing here? Rather disappointingly, I had barely seen her since the opening reception. She had been busy. She had given three workshops, been on a panel and last night been the MC at the awards ceremony.

I stepped away from the door. “Come in.”

She followed me into my room, and I sat on the bed. She grabbed the only chair, moved it beside the bed and sat down. She smelled as though she also had just taken a shower.

“Did you have fun at the awards?” she asked.

I hadn’t really but didn’t tell her that. “I found some of the categories surprising, such as Best Paranormal Lesbian Romance.”

“Finding three winners for that was challenging,” Cyn admitted. Each award had three winners because, as Cyn had earnestly explained last night, the lesbian community deserved more.

“To be perfectly honest, I probably wouldn’t come to this conference again,” I said. For the entire weekend, I had felt as though I were in some kind of lesbian-feminist time capsule. Everyone was wearing a T-shirt with a slogan, and there were women with hair on their chins who weren’t transitioning. It wasn’t a crowd that was into irony.

“That’s too bad.” Cyn tilted her chair back, like she was a kid, a nervous kid.

“I mostly came here to see you,” I blurted out.

The look she gave me was unsurprised. “Yeah. Well, um, Victoria is okay with us hooking up, but there are ground rules.”

I glanced at the clock radio. “My plane leaves in three hours, so tell me quickly what they are!”

“I can do you, I can top you.”

I frowned. The emails we had sent each other had felt so intimate, almost as though we were in a relationship. Now they seemed more like a conversation I had been having with myself. Hadn’t she realized from my story what my desires were? “But I wanted you to submit to me!”

The chair came crashing down. “I don’t know if Victoria would be cool with that. I don’t know if I am. Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

She didn’t look me while she said this, and I raised my hands, like “stop.” She had been driving me crazy for months, and I couldn’t stand the idea of not having her. What to do then about the fact that we were both dominant? Perhaps I should lie back and let her do me? I loved to be done, and if there wasn’t much talking, we could each imagine we were in charge. This was a strategy I had successfully deployed before, but I wanted more from her, from us.

I gestured to the chair. “Why don’t you sit back down? I have an idea about how to make this work.”

She hesitated but then did as I suggested. I stood before her, wriggled my shoulders and let my bathrobe slide to the floor. Just before setting off for the conference, I had optimistically had a Brazilian, and her brown eyes immediately zeroed in on it. “Apparently, you like lap dances.”

She swallowed. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m going to give you one.” I sat on her lap and rubbed my warm shaved pussy against her pants. I slid my hands over my breasts and pinched my own nipples. Her hands stroked my back. I pushed my breasts in her face and she began to suck on my nipples. I felt myself get wet; could smell it, too. I slipped my fingers into my pussy and brought my hand up to her face, and she inhaled my scent.

Her hands gripped my thighs. “You sure you don’t want stud service?”

“Down, boi.” I eased myself from her lap. Turned around and bent down, so she could see my ass and cunt. I peeked coyly over my shoulder at her. “If you could do me right now, how would you do it?”

“I’d tell you to lie down and spread your legs.”

I got onto the floor and spread my legs as wide apart as I could.

She stared at my pussy and continued, “I’d unzip my pants and take out my dick. Your mouth would open at how big it was, and I’d ask you, ‘Do you want it, baby?’” She paused, waiting for an answer from me.

I took a deep breath and equivocated. “Maybe I do.” This was true. Her words turned me on even if I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy doing what she had described. My hand drifted between my legs.

She leaned forward to get a closer view of me playing with myself. “I’d fuck you nice and slow, and you’d beg me to be rougher. But I’d remind you a girl can’t get everything she wants. Then I’d pull my dick out of your pussy, and you’d run your nails down my back in frustration.” She paused. “Are you frustrated?”

“No,” I told her breathlessly. “I’m about to have an excellent orgasm.”

A doubtful look came into her eyes. She wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed that I contradicted her or pleased by how turned on I was. “You want my cock.”

I nodded. I didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of her strap-on inside me was definitely getting me off. “I do.”

Cyn continued in a hard voice. “I’d fuck you and then pull out and come on your tits.”

“I’m coming now,” I told her, and I was. I rubbed myself harder, and my orgasm rushed out of me, like something escaping and flying away. I felt as spent as I would have been had we actually fucked.

Cyn put her hands on her belt and started to tug it free. “To answer your question of a few months ago, I do like to get done.”

“I asked if your butch characters ever got done,” I teased.

She began to unbutton her jeans. “What would you do to me?” She wanted to jerk off, and she was willing to submit to whatever my fantasies were of her. Unfortunately, all I could imagine were the descriptions in her girlfriend’s book in which the butch heroine is licked and finger-fucked.

I got on my knees and kissed her hand, which was at her groin. “I have a plane to catch. Besides, I think we should stick with your ground rules.” I slipped the end of her belt back into her belt loop.

She looked down at me. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She had given me an orgasm, but since I couldn’t possess her in the way that I wanted, I was ready to hand her back to her girlfriend where they would no doubt process what had happened and have hot, tormented sex. “Besides, remember, I don’t like stories with—forgive the pun—happy endings.”

Her brows tilted into a frown. “Wait, are you going to write about this?”

I stood up and reached for my glasses and put them on. “Honey, what do you think?”

RUN, JO , RUN

Cheyenne Blue

Run, Jo, run. Down London streets that are never silent, even in the hours just before dawn. Run, Jo, run, your thirteen-year-old feet pounding the pavement, the breath hot and rasping in your lungs, your skinny body bursting with the effort of your heart. Run, Jo, run, away from home where your parents are screaming at each other again, screams that end with breaking glass, and broken ribs, and the wail of the ambulance siren.

Jo can’t help her mother, although she’s tried and the scars on her own body attest to her failure. So now Jo runs instead of fights, dodging the partygoers, and the late-night drunks, the shift workers alighting from big red buses and the occasional policeman who assumes a fleet-footed teenager must be a pickpocket and gives chase but never catches her and never will.

Run, Jo, run, through the shadows of your life, away from parents, teachers and social workers who are supposed to care for you yet never manage to be there. At sixteen run from home and never go back. At seventeen run from the lover who promised to care for you but defined care as power. Run from the world, and learn eventually that the only constant is you and your body, its strength and speed.

Also learn that there are some things that you can’t outrun: the horror when you learn you’re pregnant, the sorrow when the baby is lost. And you can’t outrun the knowledge that life is passing you by, and you’re not ready for that. You’re not ready to be a thief, a con, a prostitute, even though you know they’re possibilities and they wouldn’t be the worst.

So Jo stops running, long enough to enroll at technical college, long enough to learn that she has an aptitude for computers, long enough to return home and find her mother is dead and her father has captured a new lover. Long enough to learn and embrace her own sexuality.

Never long enough to fall in love. Never long enough for that.

And although she’s stopped running from things that scare her, Jo knows she will never stop her real running. Not until her knees give out, not until she’s shaky and feeble and can barely stagger a fifteen-minute mile. Maybe not even then. Running is when she is truly free.

She joins a running club, hoping to meet a girl like her, a girl with whom she can run, but the preppy insistence on teamwork and the slavish devotion to the stopwatch isn’t her thing. After yet another evening nursing a glass of soda while conversation about road races she will never run flows past her, Jo leaves and doesn’t return.

Her running, she decides, like her life, will be solitary.

And solitary it is. Jo moves to Staffordshire and discovers fell running. In the long summer mornings when the light slants golden over the ground by 5:00 a.m., Jo jogs along the road and then up the footpath that takes her over the tor. The heather brushes her ankles, and she has to watch her footing on the uneven ground, so she doesn’t run as fast, but the freedom, the aloneness and the exhilaration it brings are worth it.

Run, Jo, run, along rough footpaths and bridleways, splashing through mud and soggy autumn leaves, run through the mist on the tor and the snow that lies thick and wet on the ground. Smile as a pheasant whirs abruptly from under your feet. Bound down grassy slopes and attack the uphills, learn to embrace your solitude, learn to live your life alone. Run through winter and into spring again. A full year passes, and you are content.

One day, when she reaches the top of the tor there’s a girl there. A girl like her, in shorts and a brief, bright singlet, with mud-splattered legs and dirty running shoes. Jo slows and observes her for a moment as the girl stretches her hamstrings methodically, her heel resting on the ordnance survey marker. The girl nods; Jo nods back and moves on, swooping into the downhill part of the run, leaping rocks and clumps of heather, splashing through the stream at the bottom of the valley, the girl already forgotten.

The next day, as Jo reaches the tor the girl is approaching on the other path. Jo slows enough to watch her power up the final slope and sprint for the survey marker. The girl touches it, then bends double, hands on her hips as she drags air into her lungs. As Jo takes off down the hill the girl is once again stretching.

Jo doesn’t see her for a couple of days, but on the weekend she’s curious enough to time her run to reach the tor at that same time. There’s no one there. Jo stops and stretches, but the other girl doesn’t show. Oddly disappointed, Jo moves on, and runs an extra couple of miles instead.

But on Sunday, when Jo reaches the tor, the other girl is there. She’s not stretching; she’s jogging loosely on the spot. Her breathing is easy; she’s obviously been there for a while.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” says Jo in return.

“You run well,” says the girl. “Do you mind if I run along for a while?”

“Not at all,” says Jo, and if her heart leaps wildly in her chest she puts it down to the sprint to the top of the tor.

“I’m Carys,” the other girl says.

“Jo.”

Side by side, they lope down the slope to the wooded valley. Soon the path is too narrow to allow them to run abreast, so Jo moves in front. She can hear Carys’s breathing behind her, the easy breath of the long-distance runner, hear the soft thud of her feet on rocks and dirt. Curious, Jo increases her pace until she’s running faster than usual, and although Carys’s breathing increases, she’s still there on Jo’s tail.

The path opens out again and they run side by side through the birdsong-filled wood, splashing through the stream, passing the occasional rambler. Two miles, three, four and their pace is still gradually increasing, until when they burst from the woods out onto the heath, they’re flying and this is now no companionable run: it’s a race.

The heath ends at a road, and Jo knows without saying that it will be the finish line. Three hundred yards, two, then one. Jo digs deep, focuses on the road, and ignores the heaviness of her legs, the way there isn’t enough air in her lungs and the floating light-headedness that threatens to swamp her. She’s aware of Carys at her side, matching her pace, sometimes half a stride ahead, and doesn’t let herself believe that Carys is only pacing her and that she will break away in the last few yards.

They reach the road together and if there’s a winner, Jo doesn’t know which of them it is.

She crashes to the grass as exhausted as if she’s run a marathon. Carys lies next to her, her body at an angle to Jo’s. After a minute or so, Carys stretches out a hand, finds Jo’s and grasps it.

“Great run,” she says, and her breathing is nearly back to normal.

“Yeah.” Jo lies still, listening to the thundering of her heart and savoring the touch of Carys’s hand in her own. She wonders what Carys’s touch really means, and then Carys squeezes her fingers, a swift caress with the pad of her thumb, and Jo wonders no more.

A routine develops. They meet at the top of the tor and run a few miles together, ending with the sprint to the road. Sometimes Jo wins, mostly Carys does, and then, if it’s dry, they lie on the turf together to recover and share snippets of their lives: where they live, where they work, what TV shows they watch.

One day Jo asks, with a studied casualness, “You have a girlfriend?”

Carys squeezes her fingers and replies, “No. Not yet.”

Throughout the days of summer and into autumn they run together. Sometimes they go farther, and the sprint for the road is replaced by long miles at conversational pace. Jo realizes she’s falling in love, and the thought scares her somewhat. She knows Carys is waiting for her to make the first move, but that’s the problem. Jo has no problem hitting on most women, but Carys is different. Carys could be more than a lover—she could be for life, and when Jo thinks of that, she gets a static buzz of white noise in her head and her mind spins onto other channels. Twice now, Jo has opened her mouth to say, “Shall we have coffee? Or a drink?” and each time fear has grabbed her tongue and forced the words back down.

And then one day, long into autumn, when the days are getting so short that it’s difficult to see the ground underneath their feet, Carys says, “We need to talk about this.”

“This?” says Jo, and the beat of fear swells, and then subsides.

“It’s too dark to see properly. I’m going to go arse over tit soon and be flat on my back on the heather. Where do you run on winter mornings?”

“Roads with street lighting,” says Jo.

Carys smiles. “Me too. How about I come to your house tomorrow, and you come to mine the day after?”

Jo goes home and as she takes her shower, as she cooks and eats dinner, she practices asking Carys in for coffee. For breakfast. On a date.

It’s raining the next morning, and the doorbell rings early, while Jo is still ramming her unruly hair into a ponytail and finding socks that match.

Carys bounds through the door when Jo answers it. “Nice.” She has yet to look at the décor of Jo’s small house, her eyes are fixed on Jo and Jo finds she’s transfixed by Carys’s direct gaze.

Carys comes closer. “May I look around?”

Jo nods, and straps her running watch onto her wrist. As she bends to pull on a sock, she sees Carys’s slender calves walking up the hall.

Jo follows Carys to the kitchen, where the coffeepot stands ready to be flicked on after the run. Jo has thought long, and intends a casual “Fancy a coffee?” as they return to the house.

Carys comes closer, near enough that Jo can see her eyes are golden. Tiger’s eyes, she thinks, with little dark flecks.

“It’s raining,” says Carys in conversational tones. “Do you really want to go for a run?”

“It hasn’t stopped us before—”

Carys kisses her, swallowing her feeble words, kissing her as if she means it, as if she desires Jo, as if she wants her more than her next breath, more than the promise of a good run.

Jo’s lips are slack for long moments as she wonders how they’ve come to this, why she hadn’t done this weeks ago. But then her brain kicks into overdrive and she realizes it doesn’t matter how they got to this point, or who initiated it. What matters is that they’re here and now they can move on.

Carys’s arms encircle her, smooth, hot and bare. Jo feels Carys’s breasts, constrained by the binding sports bra, pushing into her own. But mostly, she feels soft lips and hands, strong hands starting to roam around her body: up to her shoulders, down her back to grasp her buttocks and pull her even closer.

There’s a thrum in Jo’s head, one of expectation and excitement. She breaks the kiss and says, “We’ve never skipped a run before, but if we go out now we’ll get soaked.”

Carys’s eyes are dark and deep, the pupils so large that the dark flecks in her irises are nearly invisible. “I couldn’t be wetter than I am already,” she says.

Jo’s mind spins to the bedroom, trying to remember how she left it. A mess, no doubt, with clothes and sports gear strewn around the place. But the sheets were changed last night and she doubts somehow that Carys will care about the mess.

She entwines her hand in Carys’s and tugs her down the hall toward the bedroom.

The curtains are open to let the morning light in, and somewhere outside a bird is singing its heart out. Jo knows how it feels. The bed is unmade, but Carys doesn’t seem to care and bends to untie her Asics. She pulls off her trainer socks and stands there in strong bare feet.

Jo sits on the edge of the bed and urges Carys toward her. She runs a hand up Carys’s thigh—lean, strong, with defined muscles. Jo’s fingers toy with the hem of Carys’s shorts for a moment, before reversing course to meander back down. She notes how the tiny hairs, bleached blonde by the sun, are soft, and she traces her way down to curve over a calf muscle. Carys is lightly built and her running style is fluid and effortless. Yet her legs are like steel.

Carys places her hands on Jo’s shoulders, her fingers digging tightly into the muscle in anticipation.

Jo leans forward and moves Carys’s singlet top up, enough that she can see her flat belly. Bending, she places her lips on the soft, quivering skin: wet open-mouthed kisses, tasting her girl. She pushes the singlet up farther, revealing the bright sports bra that covers Carys’s small breasts. It’s raspberry colored and matches her shorts.

Carys winds her hands in Jo’s hair, tugging on the elastic that holds her ponytail until it comes free. Jo’s hair cascades down in wild curls, and Carys sighs and pushes her hands into the mess.

“I’ve wanted to do that forever,” she says.

Jo’s fingers creep higher, until she’s brushing the underside of Carys’s breasts, then higher still until she’s cupping their slight weight.

“And I’ve wanted to do this forever,” she says.

She stands, and Carys’s fingers fall away from her hair. In a swift movement she pulls Carys’s singlet over her head, and tugs at the sports bra. It’s elasticized, with no fastenings, and resists attempts to remove it.

Carys smiles, crosses her arms and pulls it up and off in a graceful motion. She stands, her arms high above her head, the bra wound around her hands.

Jo sees her slender figure, the small uplifted breasts and the illusion of restraint in the raspberry bra wound around her hands. Her stomach tightens at the thought, and for a moment she can’t breathe as an image of Carys in her bed, her wrists bound to the iron headboard, fills her head. Then Carys shakes the bra away and the image is gone, and instead, there’s the real Carys, naked except for the running shorts.

Jo lunges, white heat in her head, and her fingers and lips trace a path along that lithe body, until there’s a nipple blooming between her lips, and her fingers are delving down, under the shorts, into the mesh liner and there’s crinkly hair and soft skin underneath her fingertips. Carys doesn’t shave, and Jo is glad. She loves a natural woman, and besides, grow-back is a bitch when you run.

Jo’s own running gear, skimpy as it is, suddenly feels like too much. With shaking fingers she drops her shorts and pulls the singlet over her head. Her own bra is sturdier, more supportive than Carys’s, the better to bind her fuller breasts.

Carys is watching her and there’s a hungry expression in her face. “I’ve imagined you,” she says, “your sports bra binding your breasts flat to your chest underneath a white shirt and black tie.”

“I’ll do that the first time we go out to dinner,” says Jo, and then there’s no more talking, only mouths and lips, fingers and hands, freckled skin and lean muscles.

They sink to the bed entwined in each other’s arms and now Carys takes the initiative, unhooking Jo’s bra and palming her breasts, rolling her nipples around in her fingers.

Jo is a creature of light and flame. Every touch of Carys’s fingers on her nipples burns a molten pathway to her clit. She wants to be touched, wants to feel lips and fingers on her pussy, wants the jerking release of orgasm.

Carys moves in a meandering pathway down Jo’s body, until she’s poised between her spread thighs. In a swift motion she’s between them, her mouth on Jo’s sex, lapping in catlike motions at her clit. Carys’s fingers push into the wet heat of Jo’s cunt, and Jo closes her eyes the better to focus the sensation. She knows she won’t last long—this intensity, this heat, it’s too much—and she comes in a keening wail, her belly rigid, her thighs jerking with the force of the contractions.

When the heat haze clears from her vision, Carys is looking at her, a hopeful expression on her face. Jo considers the long black dildo in the drawer, but not for long. This first time Jo wants Carys to fly apart under her fingers, wants to feel her heat and wetness, wants to sink wrist deep into her cunt, wants to see Carys come with the same blind intensity that Jo did.

Carys reads this in her eyes and swings a leg over Jo’s hips, straddling her. Jo looks down along her body, sees where their pubic hair meshes together: Carys so blonde and fine, Jo so dark and wiry. She pushes her hand between them, palm up so that she can curl her fingers into her lover’s pussy. Carys is wet, drowned wet, sodden like the fell after a summer rainstorm, slick and sweet. Jo moves her fingers back and forth, sliding easily through the moisture. She finds Carys’s clit, caresses it with her thumb, even as her fingers clench and curl, stretching wide Carys’s cunt.

She looks up, into Carys’s face. Her eyes are closed, nostrils flaring. Jo pushes her fingers farther in, feels the channel tighten. She redoubles her efforts, circling the nubbin with her thumb, and feels Carys’s thighs tighten around her hips and then the quiver inside, the ripples and internal shivers of orgasm.

Jo pulls Carys down so that their bodies are aligned. She strokes her sweaty hair back from her face and lets herself sink down into the lethargy after love.

For a moment she’s scared; panicked that she can’t do this, that her family’s litany of bad relationships will drag her down; scared that her own poor history and the escape routes she’s taken will suck her in, and that she’ll run, run away from Carys, from the best thing that’s happened in her life so far. Then Carys sighs and her fingers caress Jo’s hip.

It will be all right.

Run, Jo, run. Along the quiet streets and footpaths, over the heather paths to the tor, brilliant in the morning sun. Run, Jo, run, let your legs take you far and fast, let your thoughts fly free. Run, with Carys by your side, your strides matched, the joy of movement in your veins.

Run, Jo, run, let the miles fly by, your lover and partner by your side. There are some things you can’t outrun, and you don’t want to.

Jo takes Carys’s hand as they reach the tor and kisses her in the morning sunlight.

TONGUE IN CHEEK

Amal Arabi

It was Pride Month, and I was at a queer BDSM club in San Francisco. I had bought a pair of leather pants especially for the occasion at a shop in the Castro earlier that day. F2M porn was playing on a screen above our heads and I watched in fascination, though not much arousal, unfortunately. I was, well, erotically quite out of my element. I found no pleasure in their pain, though I confess I do like to be tied up occasionally, blindfolded and vice-versa. I love to fuck a woman when I am in handcuffs. I don’t know why, it’s just sexy.

The one thing I love about Frisco is that sex comes to you; you don’t have to go looking for it. And I am particularly over-restrained by a feminist upbringing that leaves me loath to make unwanted advances on a stranger. I loathe making a woman feel like a piece of meat without her prior, written consent. So, for me, cruising is not easy. I have too many honorable protocols that inhibit me from being the freewheeling sleazeball of the sexiest city on earth. Tonight, I was here on a mission. My friend, of a substantially older generation, was in town and I was his ride home. Although we had known each other for years, he had only just let slip what his birth name was. I knew him as Bob, but apparently he used to be called Edith, probably before I was born. It was a jarring moment; how could Bob ever have been Edith? And Bob… he says quite frankly between licks of his fingers after he devours his burger and fries, “I fuckin’ hate lesbians.”

Of course he doesn’t mean me; I didn’t leave him because he turned out to be a dude back in the ’80s when it wasn’t so cool, and radical lesbianism was on fire and the sex wars were ablaze; I was in primary school back then. Bob makes an exception for me, because between us there is a silent understanding that is the language of masculinity. I could have been a man, a transgender man by a hair. There is only one distinguishing difference between Bob and me: I felt at home, always, in the female body. I loved, even as a child, being masculine, butch, as strong as a hundred boys. I never wanted to be a boy, even though that’s what everyone else projected on me—at school; not so much at home, where my parents were hippies.

So I’m sitting there while Bob is trying to get laid, and now my attention turns to a demonstration of great precision with a whip. At one end, a woman, naked and tied up in a star shape at ankles and wrists, is having her nipples slashed with the very tip-end of a whip in the hand of a leather-clad lover. These things hurt, I’m thinking, but there’s pleasure in this. Interesting, it must be the extrasensory stimulation, compounded by the exhilaration of an extrovert having an audience.

So, let’s go back a little while. Your vanilla lesbian friend here (that is, me) hasn’t had sex for a couple of months, since a complete stranger offered a lingeringly beautiful, but brief, sexual encounter. And she’s thinking, I don’t know how these people can pick each other up. I don’t have the nerve for that. And suddenly I have a moment of clarity, that Zen moment where everything in your head goes quiet for a second or two and then a deep insight, like a vision, emerges. And the insight is: I’m not going to have sex again for a very, very long time. It feels very true.

Enter Cindy, stage right. An au pair. Femme. Gorgeous as hell. Strikes up a conversation. And I notice that no matter what I say, she finds it funny. It doesn’t matter: I could say “potato” (which I probably do, to test the theory) and she would just laugh. I like to make people laugh, I like to bring happiness into an otherwise grossly oppressive world. But by the third or fourth burst of laughter I start to think: Oh, she’s coming on to me! I get it. Could it be, my moment of Zen was wrong? So I tell her I’m leaving town in a week, but maybe we should go out for dinner before I leave. She gives me her number, takes mine and leaves with her friend. I told you, in Frisco you don’t have to look for sex, sex comes to you.

The following morning she sends me a message. Fairly straightforward. Do I pack? And I realize Oh shit, she thinks I’m a dude, I mean statistically speaking, given where we met, I should have been. So I tell her quite honestly, No, I don’t have any prosthetics. Then she responds: So you use your hands.

Yes.

Do you fist?

I know it’s just text messages, but my face totally goes red.

Yes, if it is possible for the woman in question.

She thinks that’s hot. Okay, good. So she says she’s going to be at the Dyke March with her butch; if I see her there, please don’t approach her, she doesn’t want to upset her very possessive companion. I say, Well, there’s gonna be 10,000 people at the park, I doubt I’d see you.

I kid you not, I’m standing there, a few yards away from the stage at Dolores Park and I get a message on my phone. It says: I’m behind you. Cindy! In a beautiful summer dress, with an insanely large hat, the specific name of which I should know, let’s just say it’s the hat Natalia Landauer wears in Cabaret. She disentangles herself from the grasp of said butch, gets up from this totally normative picnic rug and comes over. The smell of a sweet, feminine fragrance fills my head as I kiss her cheek. I ask her what the name of the perfume is, because it’s beautiful. She tells me, but I forget.

“Ten thousand people in Dolores Park, and you manage to sit right behind me?”

“I know.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. I think we should hook up. Now.”

“I can’t now. I told you why. But call me.”

“Sure.”

But I have no intention of calling her. I don’t cut other people’s grass, and my system of restraining ethics kicked in moments after the initial grip of lust. There’s someone over there on a picnic rug with a straw picnic basket who is doing the best she can to win this woman’s heart, and here I am, plotting and planning to be the lesbian lothario who totally undermines the feelings, wishes and desires of another person? Nah, that’s not cool.

See, I told you we weren’t gonna have sex again for a very long time, my left brain says to my right brain. Nonetheless, the asshole in me is thinking she should go and scope out the situation with portaloos. Are they clean enough, can one possibly be induced to have passionate, hard-core sex in one of those, or has the heat of the sun already cooked the stagnant shit at the bottom into a meaty, rotting stew? Besides, I mean, sex in a portaloo? I don’t know. Bob says he wants to take a dump so I accompany the bastard, just to scope out the situation. I was right, stew.

And that’s the end of that.

An hour later, the light reflecting from the handcuffs I have attached to the aforementioned leather pants hits this cute girl in the eye as she’s walking past. Strangely enough, she’s wearing a leather police uniform. She stops in front of me, takes out a pen and writes her phone number on the tiptop of my breast. Fuck, I love San Francisco. I hold up the handcuffs, and I tell her she should be wearing them. She takes them, cuffs my wrist to hers and we dance like fools, in the sun, in the glorious spring sun. I immediately start coming up with reasons why I won’t have sex with this person. She’s so tall, I need a ladder to get to her mouth. On the upside (or perhaps, the downside), I can probably give her a blow job just standing up. I’m kidding, she isn’t that tall. Now I’m thinking, How much does she weigh? I think I can pick her up, you know, and throw her around, if she is into a bit of rough and tumble and if we subtract the height of the heels she’s wearing, then maybe…

We get exhausted, me first, since I don’t usually dance, so I say I wanna sit down for a bit. She says, “Do you want me to uncuff you?”

“No.”

She smiles. Neither of us feels the need to exchange names or even pleasantries, which is great, I don’t do chitchat. I can meet someone and within thirty seconds be having deep discussions about the meaning of life, the place of planet earth in the universe and a range of other existential considerations. But right now, I just want to catch my breath.

Bob comes over to say he has had enough of lesbians for one day and he’s going home. Exit Bob. Soon after, cop girl uncuffs us, hands me the cuffs and quite unexpectedly grabs me by the shirt, pulls me in and kisses me. Her lips are softer than I expected them to be and our tongues enact an unusually gentle dance. I keep thinking the kiss will end, but it just keeps going. You know, when you kiss someone and something tastes good? Her breath, the texture of her saliva, the heat or cold of her skin? It’s one of those. I open one eye to take a peek and see that she too has her eyes closed; she’s really enjoying herself, or me, it doesn’t matter which. I have permission. I find my hand covering her ear, partially; it’s just automatic, I’m instinctually pulling her mouth closer into mine. That kiss seems to last an hour, but it probably only lasts a minute.

“I gotta go,” she says.

“Sure.”

“Call me.”

You bet your ass I’m gonna call you! I think as she leaves. I like her. She’s free and easy. I’m easy too, you know.

I respect a woman who fucks easily. I like the honesty of such an exchange, and I dislike the song and dance some people have to engage in so that they can somehow be seen as more respectable. I abhor the “whore” concept. Or in other words, I actually applaud the “whore.” The whore is honest, so whatever society thinks of an honest person who doesn’t pretend that she wants anything else, a person who doesn’t care what others think of her, means shit to me. I respect a woman who can just fuck with honesty. I don’t respect a woman who wants to just fuck, but pretends to be respectable. I think that’s a whorish thing to do, but the whorishness has nothing to do with the element of sex involved; it’s the hypocrisy, the pretense, the desire to be respectable that bothers me.

I remember overhearing this in a New York subway: a couple were having an argument and one woman turned to another and said, “You’re not a whore because you sleep around, you’re a whore because you want to pretend that you don’t.” That snippet struck a nerve, and the sentiment has stayed with me.

And by that moment, in the park, I have reached a peak level of arousal. Two beautiful women giving me a very easy entry into the ethically complex world of sexual engagement. What more could I ask for? But still, no sex. I am walking around with a throbbing pussy, wet, completely in heat. Left brain is thinking, Would somebody please just fuck her, already? I ignore it. Everything is hypersensitive. Even my shirt rubbing against my nipples when I walk is turning me on. Even the light spring breeze is stimulating them. The last time that happened was ten years ago. I was undergoing a renaissance of adolescence (not that I was that young ten years ago).

I decide I should save cop girl’s number in my phone and then to my horror I realize that the sweat has made the numbers illegible. Now I think there’s a conspiracy.

I’m looking at the transboys Bob introduced me to as we’re sitting on the grass sipping beer, and I’m thinking to myself, I know this guy is keen on me, could I? I mean isn’t it like racist or something to preclude a transgender man? Aren’t we all just queer and fluid and shit? Unfortunately, even though politically I find it appalling that I wouldn’t be attracted to a transgender man, biologically it’s… well, I couldn’t give him the satisfaction he seeks. I would only be able to relate to his body as a woman’s. At least this guy. Absence of penis is encouraging but, as horrible as it may seem, I want a woman. I want a beautiful woman with hips and breasts and no facial hair, and preferably with a vagina. Actually, sadly, definitely with a vagina. I feel awful for being such an old-school lesbian, here in the city of queer, in the heart of a park where the rivers of sexual fluidity overflow and nourish the grass. I’m just not cool enough to be queer. So no, that’s not gonna happen.

For a long time in my young adult life, I struggled with the fact that I couldn’t be bisexual. But this didn’t stem from a desire to extend my homosexuality to involve more acceptable social practices, no, not at all. I just wasn’t comfortable with the idea of discriminating against another human being purely on the basis of gender and/or biological sex. Politically, it was not sound. Isn’t it discrimination to look at someone and immediately preclude them? I mean if they were applying for a job and you looked at them and said, “No, you’re a man, you can’t have this job…” See? But since then I’ve learned to accept my limitations and the fact that I am textbook, butch, versatile, vanilla, gold-star lesbian. But this is probably why I have always liked bisexual women, always admired their ability to move freely between sexes and genders without boundaries.

The next day, Bob offers fatherly advice. “The trouble with you, kid, is you think too much. Too many ideas and preconceptions; you just need to loosen up a little.”

“I don’t have a problem with sex!” I reply sulkily, fingering the rim of my hot chocolate. “I love sex, it’s the getting-to part that troubles me. I can’t bear the thought of making an unwanted advance. And how can I know if it isn’t unwanted unless I make it?”

“You pay attention to body language, see if she laughs at your stupid jokes.”

“Yeah, right, that’s true. But then I think she’s being just friendly! I don’t even let myself think sexually about a woman I’m talking to. The other day this woman I know was climbing down from a tree and I was helping her, her ass was totally in my face, dude. I had a face full of sexy ass and you know what I thought? Oh no, this is not sexy, you are just helping this person down from a tree. Have some respect!

A minute later Bob stops laughing. “Well, we could go to a sex party, and you could watch for a while, but it’s pretty clear what people are there for.”

“No dude, that’s just as messed up, not everyone there wants to have sex with everyone else there!”

“You know, I’m amazed you have had as much sex as you have, seriously. How did you manage threesomes and relationships and one-night stands with this massive structure hanging over your head?”

“I wait until they come to me. The minute I have permission, no fucking problem, I know exactly what to do.”

“What a lousy top you are!” he tells me. “Listen, I’m not recommending this at all, but are you familiar with cocaine cultures?”

“I studied pharmacology; I know it acts as a disinhibitor, gives you a superman complex and the confidence to think you can do anything. It increases arousal too. I’m not interested in that. While cocaine is in your blood, you are not you anymore, you’re someone else. I’m not comfortable with the delusory self on coke, or ecstasy or what have you. When I wake up in the morning I want to look back on everything I said and did and find that it is consistent with my inner reality, consistent with the person I am when I’m not drug-fucked, or drunk.”

“Didn’t your writing teacher tell you to write an erotic piece? I mean people will be reading this, waiting for you to have awesome fucking sex, and you’re hung up on bullshit? Why don’t you write about the sex you had in a sauna when you were sixteen? And every other public place you had sex when you didn’t have a place of your own? Sex in a church, man! Why don’t you mention the steamy, raunchy shit you get up to? Like are you seriously gonna leave everybody so completely dissatisfied? In the shittiest anticlimax in lesbian erotica history?”

“I’m afraid so.”

WHAT I NEED

Xan West

I need to be inside you. This minute, no waiting, no preparation. Fuck taking off any clothes, fuck finding an appropriate place, fuck finishing this conversation; I need to pull my dick out of my pants and be inside you immediately. I am ravenous for you, need to have you, selfishly, focused on my urgency, aching to take exactly what I need from you right this second. I need to stake my claim in you, on you, grab what’s mine. Possess you thoroughly, ruthlessly, immediately. And I can, because you are mine. You chose this two years ago, and keep choosing it, every day.

I push you to your knees, take out my cock and ram it down your throat. Fuck the niceties, I need to be deep inside you right away, and I am there, feeling your throat convulse around me, growling, telling you to choke on my cock, to take it for me. I have my hands wrapped in your hair and I fuck your face, watching you work to take my dick, reveling in the sight of tears in your eyes. I take your breath with my cock, your nose stuck in my belly, my dick down your throat, and watch you struggle, your eyes huge, tears rolling down your cheeks. I pull back just a bit to free your breath, and yank up my shirt, as I take your breath again, my cock blocking your throat. I don’t pull up my shirt often, usually fuck with all my clothes on, but I want to feel your tears on my skin. My hunger for that is stronger than my need to be completely covered, at least right in this moment, and I know how you see me.

My stomach is jammed against your nose, allowing you no air. I savor it, the control I have over you in this moment, and wrap my hands into your hair, pulling it, as I feel you gasp around my cock. Then I let you breathe again, pulling out for a moment to slap you across the face with my dick, watching your mouth form the words, “Thank you, Sir.”

I slap you in earnest, hard on the face, with my cock, then the back of my hand, repeatedly, each time upping the intensity. I thrust into your throat, feeling you choke on my cock, telling you to take it for me, be good for me. I groan, and grip your hair tightly, ramming your mouth onto me, closing my eyes, savoring the feel of being deep inside you. I work my boot between your legs and grind it into you, meeting your eyes and watching them fill with pain, my dick down your throat muffling any noise you might make. I ride your throat hard, my boot grinding in time with my strokes, fresh tears falling on my fat belly and making my cock even harder.

It’s not enough. I pull out of your throat, and push you onto your back with my boot, moving around you, kicking your arms, your thighs, your crotch. I circle you, thudding into you with my boots, feeling the energy rise, riding it. I want you breathless and aching, deep in your helplessness, desperately wanting to please. You thank me repeatedly, your voice intensifying as I build into harder blows. You are breathing rapidly, and your eyes are wild. You can sense how feral I am in this moment, and I can smell the delicious bursts of fear in you. I stop abruptly and place my boot on your face. Your entire body freezes. This is exactly what we both need, and I am intensely aware of how perfect it feels. I breathe into the moment and hold it. This is sacred and right and there is no rushing right now. Everything stills.

“Mine,” I say quietly.

“Yours, Sir,” you reply.

I can feel the smile slide across my face. What a joy it is to be here with you, to take you in this way. I am so full of love for you, I can feel it bursting from my skin, my chest opening and pouring it onto you, soaking you in it. I want to roll around in it with you, my skin slick against yours. As I think of this, I can feel the hunger build again, the urgency surge, and I am out of patience.

I pull you to your hands and knees, yank down your pants, lube up my cock, and work it into you, feeling your body resist, pushing my way inside, opening you for my pleasure. I growl, holding myself deep inside you, and bite down hard onto your back, working your flesh between my teeth. I strip you of your shirt, keeping my cock exactly where I need it to be, and then yank mine over my head. Then my skin is on yours, and it feels so fucking good that I howl in exultation. It feels perfect to be inside you, my big belly against your back, my nipples rubbing against your skin, my bare arms wrapped around your chest. I can be bare-chested in this moment, trust that it won’t change my gender in your eyes. So much of my skin never feels the air, much less the feel of skin against it. It is so intense it hurts, just to feel you with my whole chest.

I am surrounding you and inside you, and I want to stay like this forever, to never let you go, to hold you close for eternity, my teeth embedded in your skin, my dick buried in you, reveling in the feel of you, knowing that you are mine.

My selfish cock begins to throb. It does not want to be still, it wants to ram into you, make its mark inside you, and it is insistent. I lift my teeth off of your back and grip your shoulders, fucking you with all of my strength, reaching as deep as I can go with my cock, wanting you to taste it.

“That’s it. Take it for me.”

I reach around to touch you in exactly the way I know gets you off, wanting to feel you gripping my cock as you come.

“Oh, thank you, Sir,” you say repeatedly, your voice desperate. I pull out of you and flip you onto your back, and ram into you, needing to see your face as I make you come, my hand insistent. I fuck you as hard as I can, watching your eyes as I stroke you, telling you I need you to come for me.

Your mouth purses around your gratitude, it is delicious to watch, as your eyes can no longer hold mine, and I feel you grip my cock as you come. I begin to rub my chest against yours, reveling in the feel of it, rolling around in your desire and obedience. I lean in and take your nipple in my mouth, feeling you shudder around my cock, your desire spiking again, before you were ready for it, and you cry out “Please, Sir,” and begin to whimper. I build you up again, taking your nipple between my teeth, teasing it with my tongue, and begin to jack my cock into you minutely, staying as deep as I can, just a slight movement in time with my mouth as I suck you off. I want to feel you come again, and I tell you so, my mouth never leaving your nipple; I tell you to come for me and that I need to hear it.

Your sounds are desperate and mixed with sobbing, and I reach up to soak your tears into my hand, and rub them on my chest. You feel amazing around my cock, and I am shuddering inside you, savoring it. I am suddenly aware of the bareness of my chest, that you can see me. My vulnerability swells up into my throat. I fill with the need to show you I’m in control, you are mine to take as I choose. I feel myself hardening all over, my jaw clenching. I can tell the beast of my sadism is showing in my eyes, because your breath catches and I can scent your fear.

I begin to ram into you, slamming you into the floor, my hands holding you down, my eyes fierce against yours. I growl as I fuck you, my hips moving quickly. It is not about you, and you can feel that. This is about me, my pleasure, my need. I fuck you into the floor, my eyes hungry as I hold your gaze, my hands gripping your wrists tightly. I take exactly what I need from you, urgency filling me, growling constantly, my nails digging into your flesh, twisting it, taking you, my cock relentless inside you.

“Mine,” I snarl. “Mine to fuck as I choose. Mine to feed on.” This is your moment to refuse, the ritual words giving you an out if you want one, or help assure me that you want this too. Sharing blood is such an intense claiming; we affirm this every time.

“I’m yours, Sir. Please feed on me, Sir.”

My hand grips your hair, holding you still, watching the fear in your eyes spike. I clean a patch of skin on your chest, and cut you open for me, watching the blood spill onto your skin and mine, coming at the sight of it. Before you can even breathe in against the pain, the blade is gone and my mouth is on the wound, licking it rapidly, my cock ramming you, coming inside you, still so hard all the way through and beyond my orgasm. I am feeding on you, claiming you, twisted around you with all my might, holding you in me and into me, as I pound as far into you as I can go, filling you up.

“Mine,” I growl against your skin as I feed on your blood. “Mine.”

My nails grip your shoulders tightly, driving into your skin, my cock fucking deeper, ruthless, my teeth grazing the wound, savoring the coppery taste of you. I can feel your blood getting all over my face, still seeping between us, making us slick and messy. I am exactly where I need to be, hitting so many of my hungers all at once, and I am shuddering, my hands convulsing on your skin, my entire body overcome with how amazing it is to be inside you, to feel your skin wet against mine, to be feeding on your blood, to be so deeply connected to you.

I lift my face from the wound to meet your gaze, and your eyes widen at the sight of your blood all over my face, the word please escaping your lips. I nod, and lean down to rub as much of my skin against yours as I can, rolling around in your blood and sweat, and soaking in your orgasm as it wracks your body. I drop my weight onto you and roll around in us, laughing with you as we savor the feel of skin against skin, slicked by blood and sweat. We are tied so tightly together, and it feels good and right and it’s exactly what I need. I thrust my tongue into your mouth as I rub against you, my nipples catching yours. I order you to come for me, and watch the tears start, your sobs ramping me up, knowing you are overwhelmed with the intensity, and so grateful for me forcing you to do this one more time.

The pain slides across your face and I revel in it, leaning my face against yours to catch your tears on my cheek. Your hips thrust as you come, and it sets me off in a long mind-wracking orgasm, my entire body shuddering, the energy built so high it explodes out of the top of my head.

“Thank you, Sir. I love you,” you whisper against my shoulder, your arms wrapped around me, holding me as I come. We float together for a long time, holding each other, our bodies stuck together, wrapped up in each other. I savor the feel of you next to me, your skin against mine. When we are back on earth together, I meet your eyes, and hold them, smiling.

“You are so good for me. You feed me in exactly the ways I need. I am proud to claim you as mine.”

You nestle close to me, place your hand on the center of my bare chest, my hand holding you in the center of your back, and we hold each other, content to be connected, safe and close, intertwined.

BRIDGE LINE

Anamika

My accidental meeting with Nisha Gulati occurred in the best tradition of a B-grade Hollywood romance, though the gorgeous ex-model later revealed that she had purposely collided with me on the second floor of Ansal Plaza just to make my acquaintance. I managed to gather all four shopping bags—three hers, one mine—and scramble to my feet before a roving shop assistant rushed in—not to help us but to check out whether the clothes racks had been despoiled by our fall.

“Thanks,” said the dusky woman, collecting her bags. Her pretty, oval face, framed in a mass of frizzy, shoulder-length hair, seemed familiar.

“It’s okay,” I mumbled, patting my trousers and checking the bag that contained my cheap Vivaldi shirt.

“Did we meet before?” she said, focusing her dark almond eyes on my face. I shook my head even as I felt mesmerized by her feral looks and her musky perfume. She was in casuals—jeans and a gauzy, lemon-yellow cotton top—and I could see that she was tall, in fact taller than me by at least four inches, slender and over-thirtyish.

“Maybe I met your lookalike somewhere,” she said, smiling effusively, revealing her sparkling uneven teeth.

“Quite possible.” I nodded and approached the exit.

“Let’s have a cup of coffee,” my accidental companion suggested as we stepped onto the escalator moving downward.

The unexpected invitation set off a warning bell inside me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she were a stocky, mustachioed male, attracted by my delicate features, but why should a pretty woman, even though she might not be in her prime, seek out a thin ordinary-looking girl like me?

“Thanks for the invitation, but I… I have some appointments to keep,” I blurted out, wondering if she was a pricey call girl looking for an errand girl for her massage parlor. My shaky voice must have betrayed my concern and anguish, for, as soon as we stepped onto the solid floor, my companion said: “I thought you’d recognize me. I am Nisha Gulati, ex-model.”

“Rhea Sen,” I mumbled, feeling relieved as I remembered seeing her mug shot occasionally on Page Three of the Hindustan Times supplement—HT City.

Several heads turned as I followed the gorgeous ex-model into the coffee shop and took a corner table.

“Espresso or cappuccino?” asked Nisha, piling up her shopping bags on a chair.

I had no idea about the latter variety, but chose it all the same on the strength of its exotic-sounding name. She ordered cold coffee for herself.

“Are you a Bong?” Nisha asked, looking once again at my face with an intensity that made me flinch.

I nodded.

“I am half-Bong. Father Punjabi Sikh; mother Bengali. Mom was from a place called Chandannagar which, I have heard, was once a French principality and was renowned for its electrical wizardry.”

I told her that my village, Chandipur, was only two stations away from Chandannagar even as I tried to follow her drift. Obviously, the ex-model hadn’t invited me for coffee to explore our Bengali heritage and discuss Tagore songs and rosogolla, the two much-maligned obsessions of an expatriate Bengali.

“You have the figure and looks of a model, Rhea,” Nisha said, after taking the first sip of her coffee.

“You must be joking,” I said, feeling slightly elated. “I definitely don’t look like a model.”

“All models don’t have to be tall and pretty,” said Nisha, sizing me up with her dark almond eyes. “What are your vital stats, by the way?’

I said I had never measured myself.

“You should,” Nisha said emphatically. “You have a finely chiseled face and very good collarbones, Rhea. You must be doing a lot of exercises and dieting to maintain your anorexic figure.”

I gulped, unable to decide whether I should laugh or cry. The ex-model would certainly be shocked if I told her that I had been maintaining my “anorexic” look since my birth and had been taking Revital capsules to gain a few kilos to look like a normal, healthy girl.

“Now, Rhea, would you mind opening just a couple of buttons of your top and letting me see…”

“Please, Miss Gulati, you are going a little too far,” I protested, recovering from the shock.

“Call me Nisha, just Nisha.”

“Well, Nisha…”

“I need your help, Rhea, and I am sure, as a compatriot you will not disappoint me.”

Nisha set aside her coffee, pushed back a few stray ringlets from her face and introduced her problem. Delhi’s top models had all gone to Mumbai to participate in the ongoing Indian Fashion Week (IFW) and Richa Sharma, Nisha’s best friend and one of the few fashion designers who wasn’t participating in the IFW, had chosen to show her Bridge line of clothes for the fall/ winter season next Saturday at the Park Royal, before a select gathering of marketing managers, socialites and fashion journalists. Nisha was on the faculty of Le Modelle, one of Delhi’s most respected modeling agencies, but she could rope in only half a dozen not-so-hot models for Richa’s show. To make things worse, two had just dropped out and dashed to Mumbai to earn better wages from the IFW jamboree, landing Nisha in a quagmire. With just five days left, there wasn’t enough time to hunt for suitable replacements and put them through the rigorous drill of ramp modeling.

“You are a godsend, Rhea,” Nisha warbled. “You’ll fit nicely in Richa’s Indo-Western segment. We will pay you ten thousand rupees for your appearance.”

That was, in fact, almost half of what I earned in a month from my eight-hour-a-day grind as an assistant in a travel agency. Still, I had doubts that needed to be cleared before I took the plunge.

“I am only five-four,” I told my prospective employer.

“Don’t worry. A snazzy pair of stilettos will add two inches,” Nisha assured me. “You have very smooth skin and good bones.” Nisha gently touched my cheek, nose and collarbones. “And you are so young and fresh looking.”

“Thanks,” I said, closing my eyes for a moment as I fancied myself an accomplished model, strutting the ramp with the poise and grace of a famous model like Meher Jessia or Madhu Sapre.

Nisha whipped out her BlackBerry, tapped the numbers and, as she got a response from the other end, whispered excitedly: “Good news, Richa. I have just found Neha’s replacement. Come over to my place within half an hour, right?”

“I am not exactly in a mood to join your caper, Nisha,” Richa spat out, exhaling a stream of acrid smoke from her cigar, when Nisha presented me to her friend. We had descended, via a spiral staircase, to Nisha’s basement, where we found the plump, moon-faced designer, clad in a pair of tight Levi’s and loose round-necked top, sitting gloomily on the edge of a T-shaped wooden platform, dangling her legs, smoking her slim cigar. “Look,” she said, holding it up like a seasoned politician lecturing his minions. “After struggling ten long years in this bloody, cutthroat profession, I can’t risk my reputation by putting up a short amateur to display my wares. The sponsors…”

To my relief, Nisha dragged her infuriated friend away to a corner to argue my case. Meanwhile, I occupied Richa’s vantage position on the T-shaped platform (which I later learnt to recognize as Nisha’s practice ramp) and tried to identify the models displayed on the four walls. Four of them turned out to be none other than Nisha herself in her heyday, arrayed in colorful ethnic costumes embellished with dazzling gold and brocade.

The heated exchange between the enraged designer and the cool, persuasive ex-model continued for about ten minutes and then Nisha came back to whisk me into a small but well-appointed anteroom fitted with a large mirror, a dressing table, a couch and a few clothes racks.

“Look, honey, I will apply a light makeup on your face and then fit you out in a short denim skirt to prove my point to my fastidious friend,” Nisha said, as she sat me on a stool with my back to the mirror. “If she doesn’t like you, I’ll say ‘sorry’ and pay you the taxi fare for your return journey. Okay? But, first I must have a look at your body.”

Ignoring my mild protests, Nisha unbuttoned my shirt, unhooked my bra and then asked me to stand up so that she could unbuckle my belt and pull down my trousers to my knees to have a good look at my androgynous figure. “A boy-girl, huh?” Nisha said with a smile, even as I cupped my small breasts, which I had been trying to augment with Revital, with my palms.

“You have a fine figure, Rhea,” Nisha certified and then gently but firmly removed my hands from my breasts. “Honey, we come in different sizes and shapes but all are equally good for my profession if only we know how to present each one.” Nisha now placed her left hand on my flat tummy and with her right hand she stroked my breasts, gently tweaking my nipples to make them taut and pointy. This was, of course, not my first encounter with a woman who was interested in my body, but with her kind, encouraging words and gentle touch, Nisha made it easy for me to appreciate her advances. In fact, I wondered if the ex-model would eventually allow me to explore her fabulous body—if Richa took me on for her show.

As if she could read my mind, Nisha whispered, nuzzling my neck and earlobes, “Look, Rhea, I don’t know if Richa will approve you or not, but we shall remain friends and there will certainly be other assignments in future where I can fit you in. Right?” And with that assurance, Nisha kissed me lingeringly, exploring my mouth with her tongue, her hands stroking my abdomen and then slipping under my panties to make my pussy hot and humid. “You need a good shave down there, honey,” she said as she reseated me on the stool. “Now, let’s get back to business.” Nisha picked up a brush from the dressing table and started cleaning up my face with some deft strokes.

Nisha took about half an hour to “do” my face, working briskly with her brushes, tubes and gels. When she finally turned me to face the mirror, I found myself staring at a pretty, modish girl with kissable lips and a sexy look.

“Do you like what you see in the mirror?” Nisha asked.

“Immensely.”

“Excellent. Now I will dress you up in a tight-fitting skirt to wow Richa.”

But Richa was a tough customer, who refused to be impressed solely by Nisha’s clever makeup and my body-hugging miniskirt. She made me walk the ramp a couple of times with the strobe lights focused on me, and then strike an aggressive posture with my hands poised on my hips. She then scrutinized me for about ten minutes from every possible angle and finally declared somewhat grudgingly that I was “just passable.” “What size is she, by the way?” Richa asked Nisha.

“Rhea is a seven.” Nisha then rattled off my vital statistics, my height, weight (which she correctly quoted as forty-three kilograms without putting me on the scale) and a few laudatory words about my good bones and smooth skin.

After Richa left, Nisha took me back to her anteroom and made love to me on the couch. She urged me to be her top girl and encouraged me to be aggressive, a real butch, and punish her by savagely chewing her lips, her lovely face and tits and then pushing three of my fingers up her smooth, clean-shaven pussy. Somewhat coy and hesitant at the beginning, I soon started enjoying my assigned role and molested Nisha’s slender, gym-toned body to my heart’s content. I employed my mouth and fingers to bring on her spasms and in the process reached my own orgasm with Nisha’s long little finger delectably teasing my asshole.

“Attitude is the most important quality in a model,” Nisha lectured me in between two long, intense sessions during which I practiced catwalking on her makeshift basement ramp, trying to exude elegance, confidence and style. Later, Nisha showed me the video clips of some famous models in action, in slow motion, which of course, included some prime footage from her own big shows. Richa had slotted me for her Indo-Western line of clothes featuring mainly short kurtis and spaghetti tops in different shades and colors, teamed with flared pants or miniskirts. Exposed legs and a sizable chunk of midriff being de rigueur for this particular line, Nisha whisked me to Eleganza, her favorite beauty clinic, on the second day of my grooming to put me through the basics of body care that included hair removal and an elaborate fruit facial. Three hours later, when I returned to Nisha’s basement to resume my drill, I had two Dalmatians, brought in by her housemaid, as my audience. As I sashayed down the ramp, the exceptionally well-behaved Dalmatians sat primly on two chairs and encouraged me with an occasional yelp and tail-wagging. Nisha and I shared our sandwiches with the fashion-loving Dalmatians during the lunch break.

On the third day, Richa turned up in the evening with an odd assortment of strappy, body-hugging georgette kurtis and stringy, backless cholis to try them on my spare frame. It was during this trial before the big, oval mirror in the anteroom that Richa made the spectacular discovery that I was not entirely flat chested. I cringed a little and blushed as Richa gleefully tweaked one of my nipples even as Nisha glared at her friend disapprovingly.

“Well, Rhea has the measurements of a petite model,” Richa finally said, after Nisha had hurriedly covered my bosom with a stole. “It would be a good idea for her to allow a little wardrobe malfunctioning and casually expose one of her boobs just like those Paris models do these days to create a ripple in the audience.”

I firmly rejected Richa’s suggestion; Nisha came to my rescue and pointed out that since I came from a conservative background, Richa shouldn’t expect me to be too bold in my first appearance.

That evening, I gave a more energetic and versatile performance on the couch as Nisha’s top girl, bringing tears to her eyes. “To be candid, Rhea,” Nisha said, cupping my face in her palms and looking deep into my eyes. “I have had several lovers in the past, mostly models, but you are probably the best of the lot. You aren’t going to leave me for a girl your age, are you?”

I responded with a fierce kiss and said: “I like mature women, Nisha. To tell you the truth, I fancied you the moment I set my eyes on you, though I was a little afraid of making advances to a celebrity model like you.”

“Onetime celeb, honey,” corrected Nisha. “Now I am just like any other wage earner on the street. So don’t treat me deferentially, right?” And with that little homily, she drew me tight on her bosom and started licking my face, catlike, as a prelude to a searing encore.

The Park Royal greenroom was big enough to accommodate fifteen models, but there was some unavoidable bitchiness and heartburn in our ranks because the senior models, who had already distinguished themselves by appearing in music videos, serials or TV chat-shows, claimed all the fine big mirrors, forcing us juniors to share one mirror between two or even three of us.

Ten minutes before the show, Richa came to the greenroom to exchange pleasantries with the senior models and found just a few seconds to blow a gust of cigar smoke and a kiss in our direction. Nisha visited the greenroom as well, to boost the morale of her models. “Take care of this new girl from my stable,” Nisha requested of Lisa, a senior model (referred to as a “sex kitten” by the fashion magazines). She then advised all of us junior models: “Don’t panic, hons; remember, even the best models trip on the ramp once in a while. Play cool and never make eye contact with the audience.”

“And don’t ask for a hike in your fees unless you have shaken your butt in a music video or mouthed a few lines of inane dialogue in a soap,” a disgruntled junior model riposted after Nisha had left the greenroom.

And then the lights went off, the invigorating sound of tabla and strains of sitar filled the Park Royal ballroom, an overhead spot focused on the sponsor’s banner and on the signal of the choreographer’s tiny handbell, we sashayed down the ramp, one by one, to display Richa’s Bridge line of clothes. The lights (blue when we began and yellow when we finished our walk), the pulsating music, the beautiful girls and the colorful clothes they displayed, all combined together to concoct a heady brew that went straight to my head. The backstage cribbing and carping over mirror, ribbon and hair clips at last gave way to a sense of bonhomie. Even the seniors abandoned their superior airs for a while to help out the juniors with timely reminders and warnings to make the show a success.

“Ignore the camera flashes,” advised Megha, a horsey senior who stood five-eleven and was often affectionately mentioned on Page Three as “the bimbette with the unending legs.” Now that everyone was so chummy, I asked Lisa, in between two sequences, a question that I should rather have asked Richa: “What’s this Bridge line?”

“I call it Shitline,” Lisa snapped even as she gave her face a once-over in her tiny handheld mirror. “It’s neither prêt-à-porter nor couture which, in fact, allows you to display all sorts of trash. Some designers call it Diffusion line. I bet someday Richa will hire us to display her Bridge line bras and panties studded with Swarovski crystals—with an Indo-Western segment thrown in for a few extra claps from the audience.” She was going to make a few more nasty remarks about Richa’s Bridge line but couldn’t as a helper came forward to fit her with a crepe blouse for the next number.

“Look, honey, Richa rakes in her moolah not from these tops and trousers she sells in her Houz Khas boutique, but from designing khaki and denim uniforms for the police, bus drivers, hotel staff and hospital nurses,” the knowledgeable Lisa confided to me when we came together a third time to display Richa’s denim-Lycra skirts and tops. “There’s much chaff and little grain in this business. So, keep your eyes wide open.”

“And your legs firmly shut,” Megha, the bimbette with the unending legs, joined in, tongue in cheek, as she overheard our chitchat.

It could have been a perfect show if only our compere hadn’t goofed up with the script. While I was trying to captivate the audience with my funky party wear, I was stunned to hear her casually mention the outfit as “office wear” and when another junior displayed traditional, embroidered kurtis and churidars, the compere heaped lavish praise on them as “party wear!”

Two days later, when I met Nisha in the sitting room of her red-brick house in Greater Kailash, a posh locality of south Delhi, she handed me two envelopes and said: “Open the small one first and count the money.”

I counted ten crisp, one-thousand-rupee notes and thanked Nisha.

“Are you happy, Rhea?”

I nodded and smiled.

“Now have a look at your photos. I think they are okay. You look very smart and professional in Richa’s denim-Lycra outfits.”

“Thank you!” I took out the photographs from the big manila envelope and fell in love with my new persona—Rhea, the model—fabricated by Nisha. I beamed at my mentor and she winked and then both of us laughed to celebrate my debut as a model. In her slacks and pink cotton top, Nisha looked comfortable and relaxed. Her sitting room was neat and uncluttered: instead of the mandatory bric-a-brac crowding the sideboards, it had only a trio of miniature Mughal paintings on the wall, a few crystals and pyramids set on low tables and a wind chime hung right above the entrance.

“Do you think I may get any further opportunities to walk the ramp?” I asked Nisha, sipping my tea brought in by her housemaid.

“We are friends and lovers, aren’t we?” Nisha said, smiling. “I will fit you in whenever I have a chance. In the meantime, why don’t you go for a portfolio shoot?”

Sensing my ignorance about the nitty-gritty of the modeling profession, Nisha handed me an extract of her recently published article in Zing, a glossy fashion magazine, offering some tips to the aspiring models on how to get started. “Ignore what I have written under ‘Portfolio’ and give me just three nine-by-twelve B&W head shots and one body shot in lingerie or swimsuit along with those action shots you already have. Put them all in an eleven-by-fourteen album, right?”

I nodded. Nisha now rose from her chair and came over to me to give me a tight, reassuring hug and a soft, grazing kiss on my lips. “Look honey, you are special to me because you’re my discovery.”

“And you are my Bridge line,” I said, reciprocating Nisha’s loving gesture with a peck on her fine nose.

WHO AT MY DOOR IS STANDING

Sam Tweed

Slowly the orange light made its way through the windowpane. Jonah squinted, and reached out for the kitchen table and knocked into a flask of whiskey: silver with a brown leather body. Hungover, she wiped her eyes and leaned back in her armchair. Her thighs felt tight in her thick cutoff jeans. Summer traffic in Brooklyn honked and beeped by her window. A sense of urgency and calm mixed with the consistent swivel of the ceiling fan.

She walked over to the window and pulled open the sash, her arms curling and bulging as the window let out a loud shriek. Jonah was relatively muscular, and had tattoos on her inner arms and back. She lifted her sleeveless Harley-Davidson shirt up to itch under her binder and leaned her head out the window. The doorbell rang.

“Who is it?”

“It’s your neighbor.”

Jonah couldn’t see a face through the peephole, just a well-defined chin, but her stomach dropped like she was at the top of a roller coaster at the sound of the stranger’s voice, deep and smooth. She unlocked the door, swung it open and nodded.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Their eyes met and a smile crept over Jonah’s face.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you; I’m Ryley.”

Jonah surveyed Ryley’s body. She was a bit taller than Jonah, and was dressed like a greaser from the ’50s, in a T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and short hair. There was some paint on her arm. One curl of hair sat on her forehead. She had clearly been sweating and didn’t seem to be dressed ironically.

“So yeah, um… I just moved in next door and wanted to introduce myself, since we’re neighbors now.”

Jonah noticed a slight accent in Ryley’s voice. She couldn’t quite place it. “Yeah, do you want to come in? Have a beer or something?”

Ryley furrowed her brow and smiled. “Isn’t it early for that?”

Jonah nodded and stood still.

“Water would be great.”

They entered the house and Jonah motioned to the couch, and Ryley tentatively sat down.

‘Where do you come from?’ Jonah yelled from the kitchen.

“Originally? Or do you mean where I moved from to here?”

“Um… I don’t know… both? Either?” Jonah walked in with two glasses of water and plopped down next to Ryley.

“Oh, well I’m originally from Lebanon,” Ryley told her. “But I just moved here from Memphis.”

Their eyes locked, and Jonah put her head back. She didn’t usually invite strangers in, but for some reason, this felt oddly comfortable. Maybe the whiskey from the night before was still having an effect.

“Memphis, huh? Johnny Cash is like my favorite singer. You sing?”

“No,” Ryley smiled. “Not everyone from Memphis sounds like Johnny Cash.”

Jonah stood up to get a record. “I just know you have a deep sexy voice,” she said, and felt her face flush. Ryley just looked down, embarrassed.

Jonah fumbled for the record and bent over the player, carefully placing the needle. She looked back and noticed Ryley was cupping her glass, and staring right at her ass. She looked away and they both laughed, Jonah a little nervously. Ryley’s eyes cut right through her, and urges rushed through her. She felt herself getting wet and was almost alarmed. She had never been this aroused by anyone just looking at her. Jonah was surprised at Ryley’s intensity that seemed to have suddenly switched on.

“I like this record,” Ryley said, slowly. She leaned back and put one hand in her pocket. It almost looked like she was going to unbutton her pants, and Jonah’s heart skipped a beat. Jonah swallowed and went to get her flask. Ryley stood up and started walking around, and Jonah noticed the veins in her big hands. She got wetter just looking at Ryley’s hands; they were perfectly formed and strong. Jonah liked it rough and wondered what kind of things Ryley was into. They had known each other for less than an hour, and Jonah was ready to strip naked and wrap Ryley’s arms around her.

Jonah saw Ryley take in her knife collection: there were four big knives on her desk, in fancy leather cases.

“What are these for?”

“Sex mostly,” Jonah said. “And I like how they look.” She stepped closer, so they were standing about a foot apart. They could feel the heat from each other’s bodies.

“I don’t understand how you have sex with these”

Jonah laughed. “I don’t have sex with them, I like my partners to use them on me…”

Ryley kept listening, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. Jonah was sure Ryley could tell, even smell, her arousal. Ryley glanced at Jonah’s lips and back up to her eyes.

“What else do you like?”

“I like getting fucked really hard,” Jonah said frankly. Ryley was breathing heavily. Ryley clearly wasn’t used to the way Jonah was talking. Jonah looked straight into Ryley’s eyes, as if daring the other woman to kiss her. Ryley’s face was a mix of arousal and confusion; she pushed her hair out of her eyes and laughed. Jonah stepped back. Ryley put her hand in her pocket and turned.

“I should probably go back to my apartment… to unpack…”

“Yeah, okay, well thanks for stopping by. It was great to meet you.”

Ryley shook Jonah’s hand; she had a strong grip and it hurt a little. She walked to the door, then turned back to Jonah.

“I noticed your faucet was leaking, I can fix that sometime if you want. I’m pretty good with my hands.”

Jonah huffed a yes-ish word and closed the door, rolling her eyes.

Frustrated, she grabbed a knife. She threw it on her bed and stood in front of it, taking off her shirt and shorts, and then her binder; she left her briefs on. She crawled on the bed and lay flat. She took the cover off of the large knife and breathed in. As the knife lay on her chest, she reached underneath her briefs, surprised to find her vulva was slippery and wet. She grazed her fingers over her swollen clit and started rubbing it in circles. Her entire body felt tingly and she ran the tip of the knife over her erect nipples. She dug in harder with the knife under her rib cage, scraping into her skin, letting a couple drops of blood slide across her stomach, then making a line across down to her hip bone. She breathed out, rubbed her clit harder and slipped two fingers inside of herself, as deep as she could go.

She dropped the knife, pulled her fingers out and added a third, moving them in and out, massaging her G-spot, building intensity. She spread her inner lips apart with her free hand, and squeezed her clit, closing her legs and rolling over onto her stomach. The cut on her stomach burned as it rubbed on the blanket, and she thrust her hips into the bed. She rubbed her lower abdomen and felt it in her G-spot. She thought about Ryley fucking her from behind, gazing at her ass and slapping it calmly. She let out a loud moan and thrust into the mattress, harder and harder, until she felt her insides contract and cum poured out of her. She lay back and grabbed a joint next to her bed. She lit it and took a big puff, exhaling smoke rings around her limp, bleeding body. She might have fallen asleep. Sometime later her phone rang, and she picked up.

“Jo, you coming to Tiffany’s birthday party?”

“Uhm, yes. What time?”

“We’re all here, so… now.”

“Oh shit, yeah, I’ll be there in a bit.” Jonah rushed to clean herself up and hopped in the shower. She put on her shorts, binder and a striped blue button-down with a black tie. She grabbed her wallet and ran out the door, the thought of Ryley still lingering in her head.

When she got to the party, music boomed from inside and wafted out of the front door as it opened.

The birthday girl, Tiffany, greeted her at the door; she was a petite woman with an asymmetrical haircut, the hair on one side was completely shaven and on the other falling down to her shoulder. She was wearing a small dress and sneakers.

“JONAH BABY!” She jumped up for a hug and Jonah lifted her, laughing.

“Happy thirtieth birthday! Sorry I’m late.”

They walked into the party and Jonah said hello to her friends. Then she heard a now-familiar voice. It was Ryley, wearing a leather jacket, holding a box of cigars with a ribbon around it, greeting their hostess.

“Happy birthday,” she said in that sexy, raspy voice. Tiffany jokingly swooned and put her hand on Ryley’s chest, kissing her on the cheek. “You have to meet my best friend! Jo, where are you?”

Ryley looked up at Jonah and smiled, seemingly pleasantly surprised. Jonah smiled back.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Nice to see you again.”

Tiffany looked confused. “You know each other?”

“Jonah is my new neighbor,” Ryley told her. “I stopped by this morning to introduce myself.” Tiffany got distracted by another friend arriving and waltzed away, leaving Jonah and Ryley alone.

“Can I get you a drink?” Jonah asked. Ryley nodded. They walked into the kitchen.

“Bizarre, huh?” Ryley said, giving Jonah a friendly slap on the back.

“How do you know Tiffany?” Jonah asked. “She’s been my friend since like fifth grade.”

“We met at a bar when I first got into town; she’s great, such a free spirit,” Ryley said with a sweet smile.

They spent the night talking and laughing, and Jonah desperately wanted to kiss her. She didn’t really have an opportunity, since the room was full of people. So she listened, while Ryley told her about growing up in Lebanon and moving to Memphis, and they drank whiskey and shared stories about their families. Ryley kept pushing the hair out of her eyes, and every time she smiled, Jonah felt a throbbing in her pants. Ryley seemed both nervous and laid back at the same time, laughing at stories Jonah told and fiddling with her hands.

As Ryley took a sip of beer, their legs touched. They were both wearing cutoffs so their skin rubbed, and Jonah looked down at Ryley’s leg. They both sat paralyzed, and Jonah put her hand on Ryley’s thigh. Ryley looked straight at Jonah and bit her lip. She couldn’t wait any longer, and motioned to the stairs. Ryley followed Jonah’s lead up the short flight.

Tiffany’s room was empty. They giggled as they shut the door. Jonah locked the door and felt Ryley’s large hands wrap around her waist. Jonah pulled Ryley’s face into hers, and their lips met. Jonah had never been so turned on by a kiss; she felt herself get wetter and pushed her hips into Ryley so that their bodies were flat against each other. Ryley smiled and pulled her face away. She ran her fingers through the back of Jonah’s hair, getting a firm grip, and then yanked her head back,

“So you like it hard, huh?”

Jonah flushed and nodded, “Yes, please!”

Ryley kissed Jonah again and lifted her up against the wall with ease. Squeezing her ass, she started sucking on Jonah’s neck. Jonah moaned and pushed her hips out, wrapping her legs tightly around Ryley’s waist. She pulled Ryley by the shirt to kiss her, and Ryley pushed herself between Jonah’s legs.

“Can I take these off?” Ryley whispered, nibbling on Jonah’s ear and pulling on her shorts. Jonah nodded.

Ryley led her to the couch and then got on her knees and removed Jonah’s shorts and briefs. Jonah noticed Ryleys nipples were poking through her shirt; she wasn’t wearing a bra but definitely wasn’t flat chested. Ryley noticed her staring and stood up.

“Take that off,” Jonah said. Ryley removed her shirt, messing up her hair a bit and revealing her chest. Jonah reached out to touch her breasts and took Ryley’s brown nipple into her mouth, sucking and then biting, glancing up at Ryley, who was moaning. Ryley pulled Jonah up and put her back on the couch, getting in between her legs and pushing them wide open. Ryley kissed her inner thigh, making her squirm with anticipation. She hovered her mouth over Jonah’s clit for a second and then opened her mouth, taking it in. She sucked on Jonah’s clit softly and moved her tongue down, licking around her opening and back up to her clit. Jonah grabbed Ryley’s head and pushed her farther inside. Ryley started fucking Jonah with her tongue, deep inside.

“Holy fuck!” Jonah said, almost laughing.

Ryley kept licking her clit until it was swollen and red, and then she sat back and looked at it, slowly massaging it with her thumb, keeping two fingers inside. She put another finger in. She looked into Jonah’s eyes and put another finger in, and then her entire hand. Jonah gripped the couch and leaned her head back, pushing her body into Ryley’s hand so she could take her whole fist.

Ryley started fucking her harder, getting more wet herself. Jonah lifted Ryley’s hand up to slap her, and Ryley smiled and put her other hand on her face, rubbing her cheek as a warning, then slapping Jonah across the face. Ryley fucked Jonah until she came hard around her fist. Then Ryley stood up, taking her pants off as Jonah watched.

She wrapped her legs around Jonah and Jonah stared up at her, smiling. They kissed and Ryley gyrated her hips on Jonah’s leg. Jonah’s eyes rolled back in her head as she felt heat and wetness radiating from Ryley’s pussy. She started riding Jonah harder and closer. Jonah grabbed on. She slapped Ryley’s ass. Ryley pushed her hands off and held them down, then started grinding her body faster into Jonah. Jonah watched her strong body move steadily.

Ryley was already turned on from fucking Jonah, so it didn’t take her long to cum. She rode Jonah harder and slowly, and brought her face close to Jonah’s, breathing heavily.

Jonah breathed with her, pleading with her, “Please cum on me,” she whispered. Ryley’s body arched back and Jonah felt her contract, amazed as wetness covered her. They kissed and sat there in silence for a second. Ryley rolled off and sat down next to Jonah, running her hands through her hair to get it out of her face.

“That was… um… great,” Jonah managed. “Thank you.”

“Uh, yeah… thank you.”

They laughed and Jonah shook her head and kissed Ryley again.

“Want to go for a walk?” Ryley asked, as she started to get dressed.

“Yeah,” Jonah replied as she searched for her clothes.

They walked to the park as the dawn started to break, and somehow they seemed more shy with each other than before. Jonah kicked a pebble on the street, and Ryley smiled at her.

“I’m glad I met you,” she said, pulling Jonah in roughly for a hug that messed up Ryley’s own hair. Jonah smiled, and fixed it for her.

MY BAGANDAN PRINCESS

Dolar Vasani

Every October, I retrieve the photograph from my special box and light a candle in memory of my Bagandan princess. The month marks her birthday and notches up another year since I left Uganda, the country of my birth. As the years go by I wonder how life could have been without the turbulence.

It was forty years ago—1972, a year of note for many reasons. We were only sixteen and our whole future lay ahead of us. Exams were behind us as we lazed by the Silver Springs pool playing endless Scrabble. We danced to Motown, we read Mills & Boon romances and we watched Hindi movies. Our single worry was whether our grades would be good enough for entry into the college of our choice. We fantasized about places with names such as Westminster, Jesus College and Cheltenham Ladies, imagining the room we would share, the uniforms we’d wear and the food we would taste together. We couldn’t visualize a life without each other.

Beatrice was the daughter of a senior government official, but all that mattered was that she was my special friend. I loved being with her. Our acquaintance started in school, where she was the house captain. As a canteen monitor, she made sure I jumped the queue for lunch. These encounters soon developed into longer chats while we waited outside for our drivers. She was everything I wasn’t—strong, popular, oozing with self-confidence. Often referred to as a tomboy, she had an outward dominance that stopped boys in their tracks. When she turned sixteen, she invited a group to see The Graduate at Nita Cinema. Technically, we were underage, but she had ways of sorting out such minor inconveniences. As I sat next to her and the lights dimmed, she gently slipped her warm and soft hands across my body, placing them between my thighs. Having fantasized about her, I enjoyed my attention being diverted from Dustin Hoffman, navigating through his summer of love, to my own pulsating loins. From that day on, Beatrice became my protector and my princess of the Buganda.

Her chivalrous tendencies were reserved for me, and only I knew how soft she really was under her impervious exoskeleton. She introduced me to all kinds of new adventures. My puniness and asthmatic tendencies didn’t discourage her from pushing me to my limits. The Kololo School mountain club was active and, as our trainer, she coaxed us into running round the playing fields and doing endless step-ups to build our leg muscles. How I got up the 4300-meter height of Mount Elgon without my inhaler and no blisters remains a mystery to this day. That expedition was a turning point in my life—my first time away from home, sleeping under the stars and, of course, the place I experienced my first volcanic eruption. It was my own Bollywood movie where the handsome prince steals away his sweetheart into the Himalayas.

We traveled along the Sasa Trail through lush green vegetation and past beautiful waterfalls dropping from the cliffs. Another world greeted us here. We pitched camp and before nightfall were seated around the fire drinking chai, singing and joking about our stiff muscles. My princess was always at hand, draping her red blanket around me, protecting me from the mountain chill. While I was looking forward to spending the night together, it was Bea’s public intentions that caused all and sundry to raise more than just an eyebrow. To my surprise, she announced, “Deepa and I are too tired, so we’re heading off to bed. Good night.” Giggling, we walked hand in hand under a clear and crisp African sky in defiance, without a care in the world.

We snuggled into our tent erected on a thick bed of forest ferns. Our physical contact had been limited to the odd peck on the cheek and holding hands. The tension was highly charged with neither of us saying much, each almost afraid of what the other might think. “Bea, shall I give you a body rub?” I asked nervously. Having timidly undressed, she lay naked on the sleeping bag as I kneaded her silky back, working the lavender oil into every pore. Tentatively, I proceeded to caress her soft bottom, tickling every muscle of her firm and strong legs. Mesmerized by my shiny black princess, I rolled her over and gently licked her breasts, causing her to scream with pleasure. She took my face into her hands, kissing me deeply with her tongue. The waterfalls between our legs were gushing as we explored each other with our fingers.

Our volcanic eruptions continued throughout the rest of the expedition, creating an even stronger bond between us. I had never felt so physically and mentally connected to anyone before. During the day, we hiked through forests where monkeys swung from tree to tree and vibrant birdsong entertained us, while our nights were filled with endless firework explosions in our groins. On the last day of our trek, while soaking in a hot spring, Beatrice told me she loved me and wanted us to travel overseas together for our studies. There was nothing more that I wanted from life.

Our special friendship wasn’t hidden but was never in the open either. Everyone knew Bea was my special rafiki and always took care of me. I never questioned the fact that I was with her. Sometimes the other Indian girls sniggered, calling me a kali lover. I was often invited to her house but I never reciprocated, knowing the sensitivities of race. Although my parents were middle-class and liberal, I had most definitely crossed a line. So I just told them the sleepovers were a group thing with other Indian girls. Bea and I always shared the same bed, and it all seemed very normal to us. Her parents and other family members seemed totally relaxed, too. How much they knew about our friendship was never clear.

In August, our carefree vacation was curtailed abruptly when the president announced to the nation that all Indians had to leave Uganda within ninety days. The weeks leading up to our departure were filled with chaos and disorder. We packed all our belongings into tea chests, and my parents debated endlessly about where we should go. Our movements were curtailed as life became increasingly unsafe and unpredictable. My life was turned upside down and I was confused, fearing a rupture of my cocooned life. Finally, we booked flights out on 12 October: the day Beatrice would turn seventeen.

She and I agreed to meet a few days before my departure at Christos, our favorite place for cakes. Against all advice, I left the house while my parents were busy tying up their affairs at the bank. Clasping my present—a photo of us on Mount Elgon and a letter with an English address—I hurried nervously toward the bakery. Gunshots could be heard in the distance and soldiers were pacing the streets, harassing innocent victims. Biting my nails, I waited for two hours wondering where she was. My pulse rate rose by the minute, sending my body into a frenzy. I had no idea what to do. Finally I couldn’t wait any longer. I was beside myself as I cried all the way home, narrowly escaping the path of tanks. Three days later, my family fled the Pearl of Africa. Bea and I never saw each other again.

Decades later, memories of Beatrice flash back like it was yesterday. My first love was special and is a bittersweet memory that I cherish. All I wanted was another chance to tell my Bagandan princess how much I adored her.

Editor’s note:

Sarah Schulman and Cheryl Dunye wrote an erotic screenplay that was made into a funny, sexy film. My job as editor was to present it in a way that it could be read on the page with the same joie de vivre it has when seen as a film. What I love about the piece is that it manages to combine the structure of a classical farce (complete with mistaken identities, disguised lovers and surprise reveals), with lots of sexy interludes. The story is told with a wicked sense of humor that’s both funny and exciting. It’s got slamming doors, fake mustaches, sex in a taxi, confused girls, unfulfilled cougars, and a scene in which two people have sex with someone they think is someone else, just like in a Shakespeare comedy. It’s a delightful, light fantasy. With bondage.

Sarah has a few words of introduction, then it’s on to the theatrics. Like many other tales, it begins: “Once upon a time…”

When Cheryl Dunye and I premiered our feature THE OWLS at the Berlinale in 2010, Jurgen Bruning, “a queer porn producer” suggested that we write a porn film, which he would produce for 25,000 Euros. Here is the result:

MOMMY IS COMING

By Sarah Schulman and Cheryl Dunye Directed by Cheryl Dunye

World Premiere, Berlin International Film Festival, 2012

CAST: Lil Harlow, Maggie Tapert, Papi Coxxx, Wieland Speck, Cheryl Dunye, Jiz Lee, Judy Minx, Ocean, Sadie Lune, Stephan Kushner

“Once upon a time in Berlin…”

INT/EXT. LOBBY – NOTABLE BERLIN CORPORATE BUILDING

DYLAN EBERHARDT (25), thick glasses, corporate sexy, high femme, silk blouse, tailored skirt suit and briefcase and large black bag, steps out of the building and into the rain. She checks her mobile phone and then looks inside her bag. We see a pearl-handled pistol. She looks at her mobile, six o’clock, just as the church bells ring six. The drops soak her blouse, advertising her nipples. She signals for and then hops into a cab. CABBY (40), a wide-eyed immigrant, is busy listening to the Berlin radio station.

INT. CAB – CONTINUOUS

Dylan and Cabby are silently lulled by the rain and the drone of the radio.

EXT. RAINY CORNER

CLAUDIA BALDWIN (35), handsome in her navy suit, stands at a red light. She looks into her black bag: dildo, condom, lube. She sees Dylan’s cab and runs toward it.

INT. CAB – CONTINUOUS

CLAUDIA jerks open the taxi door, throws in her gear, leaps into the cab.

CABBY (confused): What the…

The light changes, the car behind honks its horn, and the Cabby has to move on.

DYLAN: Who the fuck are you?

Claudia grabs Dylan by the hair, slaps her. Dylan reaches in her bag. Grabs her gun. Claudia spies the gun. Slaps Dylan hard and takes it.

DYLAN (CONT’D) (to Cabby): Call the police!

Claudia grabs Dylan by the neck and forcefully starts to kiss her against her will.

Cabby starts for her phone, then watches the action unfold in the rearview mirror. “Against her will” turns into “will” as they kiss deeply and passionately.

Claudia undresses Dylan, pulls off her blouse. She bites her nipple.

CLAUDIA: You make me so horny. I love your pussy. Dylan, I love you.

DYLAN (sultry): Shut up, Claudia, love’s got nothing to do with it. Keep that shit to yourself and let’s fuck.

Claudia takes her time.

CLAUDIA (to the cabby): Drive us through the Tiergarten.

Claudia forcefully slips one hand up Dylan’s skirt, the other around her neck.

Claudia fucks Dylan with the gun. Dylan gasps. Finally, as she’s starting to really get aroused, Claudia pulls the gun out, unzips her pants. Reveals a huge strap-on cock. She grabs safe sex stuff from her bag, then aims her cock at Dylan’s pussy.

Cabby has no choice but to watch. She gets into it. Plays with herself.

CLAUDIA (CONT’D) (hushed): Is this what you want, bitch?

DYLAN: Please…

Claudia fucks Dylan, passionately. Claudia comes. Dylan doesn’t.

CLAUDIA: Did you come too?

Dylan flashes a devilish smirk.

DYLAN: My turn. Give me your cock. I’m gonna fuck you now.

Dylan makes a flip move. The Cabby drives while watching wide eyed.

CLAUDIA: Wait a minute. I thought we said you wouldn’t fuck me until I asked for it.

DYLAN: I’m sick of waiting.

They wrestle. Dylan tops Claudia in a sexy way.

DYLAN (CONT’D): Ask for it now.

Dylan grabs the gun. Holds it to Claudia’s temple. She traces down Claudia’s jaw with it until it reaches her mouth. Dylan shoves it inside.

The Cabby looks back in awe. Swerves to the side of the road. Everyone is startled.

CABBY: I can’t have you waving guns around in my cab.

DYLAN (arguing with Cabby): It’s not loaded.

CLAUDIA (arguing with Dylan): It is for me.

DYLAN (arguing with Claudia): Well, get over yourself.

CABBY: Don’t make a mess back there. I just had this cab cleaned.

CLAUDIA (to Dylan): I just feel… afraid. I love you. I want to know that you care.

DYLAN: Oh, cut the crap. I got turned on by fucking. Make me come again.

Claudia tears open Dylan’s blouse, licks her nipples, caresses her, starts to get her off. Dylan is hot and responds immediately, starts panting. Dylan’s phone rings.

INSERT – CLOSE-UP DYLAN’S MOBILE PHONE

A beat.

BACK TO SCENE

Claudia is making love to Dylan as the phone rings and rings. Dylan is panting, kissing her—then, as she is approaching orgasm, Dylan reaches into her bag, while still receiving Claudia’s attentions, and answers the phone.

DYLAN: Hallo? (beat) (panting) Hello, Mommy.

INT. HELEN’S OFFICE – DAY

HELEN EBERHARDT (61), a shrink, with thick glasses identical to her daughter Dylan’s, sits behind a huge desk. Books by Freud, an analyst’s couch, academic degrees fill the room. Helen nervously sips wine and smoke while she fidgets with a pendant that has a PHOTO of the two of them in it.

INSERT – HELEN’S PENDANT

A photo of a miserable Dylan and a beaming Helen.

BACK TO SCENE

HELEN: Dylan… Dylan? What’s going on? Are you okay?

INTERCUT PHONE CONVERSATION BETWEEN CAB AND HELEN’S OFFICE – CONTINUOUS

Claudia is still making love to Dylan, and Dylan is still about to get off. The comedy of the scene is how Dylan manages to sound “normal.”

CLAUDIA (whispers): Hang up.

DYLAN (to Helen): Momma, of course I’m okay.

HELEN: I’m worried. No phone calls. No emails. You know I’ve been trying…

DYLAN: Mom, I’m just getting settled.

HELEN: It’s been four months since you moved to Berlin. I miss you. All I have here is your boring father who barely even talks to me anymore.

DYLAN: I know. (almost coming) Mom, this isn’t a good time.

HELEN: You never have time for me.

DYLAN (agitated): Leave me alone, Momma. You’ve always been in my business, pushing me just because you are a psychiatrist.

Claudia and the Cabby catch each other’s eyes in the mirror as Claudia is still working Dylan, and Dylan is still getting off.

DYLAN (CONT’D) (yelling): Push, push, push. How am I ever supposed to be my own woman with you constantly wanting to be in my life and for me to be just like you? Get a good job Dylan; find a nice man and settle down, Dylan. But you never stopped to think about me. About what I want.

HELEN (pauses): What’s happened to my little girl?

HELEN (anxious): You’re having an anxiety attack Dyl (pronounced “dill”). We can sort all of this out when I get there.

DYLAN: Get here? What are you talking about, Momma? Didn’t you hear me?

CABBY (to self): I heard you.

Cabby looks at Claudia impatiently.

CABBY (CONT’D): I’m turning around. I’ve got to go back to the city.

CLAUDIA (working Dylan): She’s almost there. We’re paying you.

CABBY: Trust me, friend, you’re doing more than that for me.

She turns cab around.

CABBY (CONT’D): Where do you two lovebirds want me to drop you off?

HELEN (aggressive): Quiet child! Mommy is coming… (beat)

Now tell me what’s a good hotel in Berlin? Not too expensive.

Dylan looks at the logo on Claudia’s corporate blazer.

INSERT – CLAUDIA’S BLAZER The logo reads HOTEL

PANORAMA.

She finally comes.

DYLAN: Hotel Panorama.

Exhausted, Dylan hangs up the phone.

Off Claudia, her life is a disaster.

JUMP CUT TO:

EXT. HOTEL PANORAMA – AFTERNOON

We see the marquee for HOTEL PANORAMA and pan to the street as the cab pulls up at the sidewalk. Claudia exits. Dylan doesn’t. She tosses Claudia her bags.

CLAUDIA: Aren’t you gonna come in Dyl? I’m not on for another… (looks at phone) twenty minutes.

DYLAN: No. I’m going home.

CLAUDIA: You sure you don’t want to have a coffee or something? It might be nice to just talk and…

DYLAN: Look. You just want more from me than I have to give, it’s not you it’s me, of course it is actually you—I mean, when I think of my great loves you just don’t measure up and when I think about my passionate love affairs like that one in 2008, you really don’t measure up, I mean that was hot, really hot, and I want fireworks, I want trumpets, I want trumpets or nothing and so compared to trumpets, really you are… nothing.

Claudia is clearly bruised. Stands with her mouth open.

CLAUDIA: That was brutal.

An uncomfortable exchange of looks between the two women.

DYLAN: Call me later, like in a couple of days, and we’ll see.

Dylan waves Claudia off, signals for the cab to drive on.

Claudia stands watching as it pulls away. She quickly types a text to Dylan.

INSERT – CLAUDIA’S CELL PHONE

As she types: I really love you…

BACK TO SCENE

Claudia adjusts her clothing. Rereads the message. A contemplative beat.

INSERT – CLAUDIA’S CELL PHONE

Claudia hits DELETE.

INT. HELEN’S OFFICE – AFTERNOON

HELEN: Hans! Hans!

HANS EBERHARDT (50), creeps in, frumpy and self absorbed, wearing a hideous jogging suit.

HANS: What’s the matter this time?

HELEN: Something’s wrong with Dylan.

HANS: Don’t be a drama queen. She’s fine.

HELEN: She needs me, even if you don’t.

HANS: Not this again.

HELEN: All you do all day and night is jog. It’s ridiculous. We never talk anymore. We haven’t had sex in seventy-four days.

INSERT a flash of Helen, seductive in lingerie, smiling at the foot of a bed in a room filled with candlelight. Pull back to reveal Hans in the bed trying to read his jogging magazine by candlelight. Helen turns on some romantic music, and as she climbs into bed, Hans rolls over and starts snoring.

BACK TO SCENE

HANS: I guess I’ve outgrown all of that.

HELEN: When we met in the seventies at university you were such the horny young man. Always wanting to fuck and suck. And for years Hans, we fucked like bunnies, but now you’re telling me you really have no sexual desire at all?

HANS: None. Not a thought. It’s all too much trouble. (beat) I’ll be back later.

He plugs in his iPod headphones and starts jogging out the door. Helen looks wistfully after him. Runs her hands over her neck, breast and body.

INSERT – HANS AND HELEN

A happier, sexy moment of Hans and Helen dancing sexily to tango music and kissing romantically.

BACK TO SCENE

Helen walks to the window dejected and sees Hans exit the building. Hans jogs down the block and around the corner.

EXT. SUBURBAN STREET – CONTINUOUS

Hans jogs a few meters then looks over his shoulder to see if the coast is clear. He leaps into a fancy convertible with the top down, where A HOT YOUNG WOMAN/DRAG QUEEN proceeds to rub all over his body sexily. Hans turns to the camera and flashes his signature smile.

INSERT – CLOSE ON HANS’ SMILE

A mischievous smile and sparkle of his teeth.

BACK TO SCENE

HANS: Daddy has been thinking about you all day.

Hans puts his arm around her as a SECOND HOT QUEEN drives away.

INT. HOTEL PANORAMA – LATE NIGHT

Claudia mopes at the front desk. JAY (30), laid back but quirky, enters.

JAY: What’s the matter with you?

CLAUDIA: Girl trouble.

JAY: You’re not still dating “the ice queen?” She’s hot and all but…

CLAUDIA: I know, Jay but she just won’t soften up. And what’s weird is that I think I am in love with her. I want to take it to the next level but she won’t let it happen.

JAY: You want to move in together and settle down have babies and live happily ever after?

CLAUDIA: Right.

JAY: Claudia, if I remember correctly, the last time I hung out with the two of you, Dylan was trying to get me to join you guys in a threeway.

CLAUDIA: Dylan likes sex. What’s wrong with that?

JAY: Likes sex?! Bullshit. Claudia, she can’t love and she passes it off as some kind of poly sex-o-mania. She’s not honest and it’s hurting you.

CLAUDIA: I know. And she really wants to… you know… fuck me. Up the ass.

JAY: And? What’s wrong with that? You’re queer and living in Berlin, aren’t you?

CLAUDIA: I’m just not into it. I’m sort of an old-fashioned butch if you get my drift.

JAY: Exit only?

CLAUDIA: Yeah. Something like that.

JAY: That is so… nineteen-fifties. Get over it, baby. Even straight men are taking dildos these days.

CLAUDIA: I can’t. It makes me feel weak. Jay, what can I do?

JAY: You gotta teach her a lesson.

CLAUDIA: Oh, she’d love that.

JAY: Not that kind of lesson. Every girl has a melting point. What you need is a revelation.

CLAUDIA: Easier said than done.

JAY: Well, I know of a place that might interest you. It’s a sex club.

CLAUDIA: Sex is not our problem.

JAY: Well something is. Here. (he hands her a card) It’s not what you’d expect at all. (starts to walk away) You never know where you might find the solution.

Claudia looks at the card. Turns it over. On the other side is a mirror. Claudia looks at herself. She needs a new path.

SERIES OF SHOTS – BERLIN AT NIGHT: A) Infamous / Classic Berlin (i.e., Brandenburg Gate); B) Street life; C) Queer street life.

EXT. BERLIN STREET – NIGHT

Claudia moseys down a dark street. It’s silent, only the sound of her footsteps. She sees a pink lightbulb in front of a shuttered storefront. She pauses.

There is a little dispenser under the front doorbell labeled TAKE ONE.

Claudia reaches in and pulls out a little package wrapped in mirrored paper; she opens it to find her prize is a fake mustache. She puts it on using the mirrored side of the key card as her aid. Claudia approaches the front door. Notices an eyehole, peers in; a blue eye looks back at her. Startled, she holds up her card.

INT. SEX CLUB – NIGHT

QUEER WOMEN and TRANSPEOPLE of all types are lounging, flirting, making love in a variety of turns. Only one person seems to notice her, OCEAN LEROY (35), the Host. He’s a postmodern character right out of Blue Velvet.

OCEAN: Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome, Claudia.

CLAUDIA: How did you know my name?

OCEAN: Jay told me he was sending a walking victim. Look around, does anyone else fit that description? (They both look, concur.) Let me give you a tour of Oz.

What ensues is a visit into two distinctly different scenes, moments before the money shot. No foreplay. Just passionate moments that lead up to a real orgasm.

OCEAN (CONT’D): Follow me.

Ocean opens Door Number One. They walk in as SADIE LUNE is being fucked by her entirely naked, tattooed lover, KAY. Ocean and Claudia watch them come. When she does, Sadie kisses Kay with loving gratitude. Kay receives this with joy. Claudia finds this upsetting.

OCEAN (CONT’D) (all knowing): Hard to see other people being grateful and acknowledging joy when someone is withholding that from you.

CLAUDIA: Very painful.

OCEAN: Change is always possible. Of course there are those who never learn.

Ocean indicates NW, a hustler and loser, trying to schmooze the COCKTAIL WAITRESS.

NW: Yeah, so I don’t have a place right now, staying with friends, you know I like to feel free.

COCKTAIL WAITRESS: Oh, you’re homeless.

NW: I’ve got some great job prospects and there’s this novel I want to write.

COCKTAIL WAITRESS: And unemployed.

NW: Who are you to talk?

COCKTAIL WAITRESS: Actually, I’m a neurosurgeon and I teach immigrant kids how to swim.

NW: Fuck off.

Ocean winks at his “heavy” who appears and hustles NW off the premises.

NW (CONT’D) (shouting): I’m gonna get you. I’m gonna block you all from Facebook. Just you wait!

NW is dragged away.

OCEAN: Then there are those who learn. Next.

They go to Door Number Two. Again, they stand and watch. The opposite scene ensues. Shaved-headed punk MAD KATE, leather halter and big dildo, getting a blow job from PAULA in maid’s uniform while she masturbates to orgasm. She comes, and kisses her lover with gratitude. Both are happy.

OCEAN (CONT’D): Everyone is getting the love they deserve but you.

CLAUDIA: She wants me to trust her enough to give up control.

OCEAN: I see.

CLAUDIA: But if I do that, then will she be kind? She’s always comparing me to people from the past.

OCEAN: Who are no longer in her life.

CLAUDIA: And those she hasn’t met yet.

OCEAN: Who knows if she ever will.

CLAUDIA: Yeah.

OCEAN: It’s hard to compete with people who don’t exist when you are so real and here right now.

CLAUDIA: Yeah.

OCEAN: Think about it.

Ocean saunters back into the central room. Claudia trails him. Ocean motions for a COCKTAIL WAITRESS.

OCEAN (CONT’D):

Don’t leave here the same person that you were when you came in. Look around, find something you can use in your life.

Ocean takes 2 glasses of champagne, hands one to Claudia, then puts his hand up the waitress’s skirt.

OCEAN (CONT’D): Take what you need and leave the rest.

CLAUDIA (heartfelt): I know.

INT. ROOFTOP – NIGHT

Claudia looks out at the Berlin skyline. A transguy, COLE, approaches.

COLE: I’m Cole.

CLAUDIA: Of course you are.

His lover, TORY walks over, puts his arm around Cole’s shoulder.

COLE: This is my boyfriend, Tory.

CLAUDIA: Of course he is. Why don’t you guys ever have names like Tom? It’s always Cole or Tory.

COLE: Feeling superior?

CLAUDIA: It’s that superiority that comes only from misery. (beat) I’m sorry. I’m Claud-i-… Claude.

COLE: Hi, Claude. I think you could learn something from us.

CLAUDIA: I’m sure you’re right.

Cole gives Claude a deep sex-filled look then kisses him. Hard. Claudia transforms into Claude, and lets the two transmen take control of him. To the perfect mind-transporting sound track, the trio have sex.

CUT TO:

INT/EXT. BAHNHOF – DAY

Helen arrives at the train station, lost. Makes her way to a taxi stand.

INT. CAB – MOMENTS LATER

Gets in cab with our beloved Cabby.

CABBY: Where to?

HELEN: I haven’t been in Berlin in years.

CABBY: Welcome.

HELEN: I want to have some adventures.

CABBY: Stick around awhile, my cab is filled with them.

HELEN (teary): I want to have a fling, at my age. Is that asking for too much?

Helen gives the cabby “sexy eyes” but Cabby deflects them.

CABBY: Berlin. Berlin is where dreams come true. Where to?

HELEN: Hotel Panorama.

They drive off.

SERIES OF SHOTS:

The Berlin metropolis is featured with cab in shot and/or looking out of the cab window.

INT. HOTEL PANORAMA – DAY

A transformed Claudia enters lobby and we can hardly tell that it’s her. She really looks like a dude with her mustache and masculine swagger. Sees her reflection in a mirror. She’s been up all night and feels happy; saunters over to the front desk.

JAY: Yes sir, welcome to…

CLAUDE: It’s me.

JAY: Whoa!

CLAUDE: I didn’t have time to change.

JAY: Yes you did have time to change. Look at you. (beat) Someone had a good night.

CLAUDE: Just call me Claude.

JAY: Whatever! You owe me.

Jay walks to the back, unbuttoning his uniform. Claudia bends down and digs in her backpack for a comb.

EXT. HOTEL PANORAMA – DAY

Helen emerges from the cab.

HELEN: Keep the change… baby.

She looks at herself in the plate-glass reflection. Notices that she seems defeated. She perks up. She can do it! Enters the hotel.

INT. LOBBY- HOTEL PANORAMA – CONTINUOUS

Claudia, still in drag as Claude, pops up from below the front desk.

CLAUDE/IA: Welcome to Hotel Panorama, my name is Clau-d-e.

HELEN (eyes Claude. Likes what she sees.): Claude… (flirts) Well Claude, are all the men who work here as friendly and handsome as you?

CLAUDE/IA (As Claude. Flirts back.): I think I’m one of a kind, trust me. (flashes smile) How can I help you?

HELEN (flirts): Call me Helen.

INSERT – JAY AT ANOTHER DESK

Jay stops what he’s doing, curious about the commotion. Sees Claude/ia flirting with Helen at the counter.

JAY: It’s working.

BACK TO SCENE

HELEN (flirt): What a nice hotel. I’d like a room please, for at least a week.

CLAUDE: I want to do everything I can to make your visit as comfortable and as pleasure filled as possible… Helen.

Helen smiles slyly. Delighted.

Jay smiles from the sidelines, happy his friend Claude/ia is moving on.

INT. HELEN’S HOTEL ROOM – EARLY EVENING

Clock flashes 6:00 PM. She sits on the side of her bed and tries to call Dylan. Voice mail.

HELEN: Dylan, it’s your mother. I have a big surprise. Call me.

CUT TO:

INT. DYLAN’S APARTMENT – CONTINUOUS

TEO (30), pours herself a tall drink. Teo is sexy, matter-of-fact and charming. She picks up some rope and crosses to couch. Dylan’s mobile phone rings and rings.

TEO: Who keeps calling you and why don’t you answer?

DYLAN (tightening ropes): Everyone wants something from me.

TEO: Everyone who loves you.

DYLAN: That’s not love, Teo. Trust me. It’s much more complicated than you think.

Teo hands Dylan a ball gag.

TEO: But love is complicated right? (beat) What is love anyway?

DYLAN: I haven’t a clue, do you?

TEO: I think it’s when you finally realize that the other person is real.

DYLAN: Huh? That’s bullshit, Teo. And you know it.

TEO (as though Sappho, the Poetess): Someday, stepping over the bloody corpses of the women who tried to love you, you’ll look up at the sun and poof you’ll get it. You’ll realize what damage you’ve done and weep.

CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal X, a submissive, who sits, extensively bound and impatiently waiting for Teo and Dylan to finish their conversation.

X: I’m sorry, but aren’t we supposed to be having sex?

TEO: Bossy. Naughty. Not nice.

Dylan shoves the ball gag in X’s mouth. Teo ties X up and Dylan straps on a harness. The two proceed to tease and fuck X.

INT. HALLWAY OF DYLAN’S APARTMENT BUILDING – CONTINUOUS

Claudia, still dolled up in Claude drag, strides out of the elevator with a bouquet of beautiful flowers. Ready to confront her issues with Dylan, she firmly knocks at her front door. We can HEAR the sounds of sex coming from inside. Claudia stands at the door dumbfounded and hurt.

EXT/INT. HOTEL PANORAMA – LATER THAT NIGHT

A disappointed Claude/ia walks down the street. They hold wilted flowers. Helen approaches.

HELEN: Claude?

CLAUDE/IA: Helen.

HELEN: Why the glum look? Have you been stood up?

They enter hotel lobby.

CLAUDE/IA: How can you tell?

HELEN: Look at how disappointed you are. How sad. Only a man who cares deeply would be this sad when his lady doesn’t accept his love.

CLAUDE/IA: And what about you?

HELEN: I’m also chasing someone who doesn’t want me. Who doesn’t know how to love.

CLAUDE/IA: So, I guess we have the same problem.

A beat. They stare deeply into each other’s eyes.

HELEN (short of breath): Oh my…

CLAUDE/IA: What happened?

HELEN: I think I just got shot by Cupid’s arrow.

Helen’s phone rings. It’s Dylan. She ignores the call.

HELEN (CONT’D): Can I buy you a drink?

INT. DOOR TO HELEN’S HOTEL ROOM – LATER

Helen and Claude/ia are drunk. They flirt heavily. Helen looks him in his eyes.

HELEN: I’m so lucky right now.

CLAUDE/IA: Why is that?

HELEN: ’Cause I get to do this.

She kisses him deeply. Claude/ia reciprocates.

INT. HELEN’S HOTEL ROOM – MOMENTS LATER

Helen looks dreamily into Claude/ia’s eyes and then gets on her knees to give him a blow job.

CLAUDE/IA: No, no baby…

HELEN: Don’t you want me to suck your cock?

CLAUDE/IA (thinks quick): You’re a beauty. You deserve to be ravaged in a bed.

Claude/ia lovingly undresses Helen. He licks her nipples. He takes off her panties and smells them. Finally, touches her clit. She’s crazy hot.

HELEN: Oh my god, you’re so hot. I want you to fuck me.

CLAUDE/IA: Not yet.

HELEN (panting): Oh naughty boy. What do you have in mind…

INT. HELEN’S BED – CONTINUOUS

Claude/ia blindfolds Helen then fists her until she comes.

INT. HELEN’S BED – MOMENTS LATER

A spent Helen and Claude/ia lie in bed.

HELEN: That was amazing. What can I do for you?

CLAUDE/IA: Just sleep in my arms, my love. Just sleep.

Helen settles into the nook of Claude/ia’s arm. As Claude/ia gently strokes Helens neck, she notices Helen’s photo of herself with Hans and Dylan on the bedside table. Looks closely at it. It can’t be… no way.

A beat.

Claude/ia slips out of bed, grabs her bag, and quickly dashes to the bathroom. Helen reaches for her glasses.

HELEN: Where are you going?

CLAUDE/IA (their back to her): Toilet.

INT. HELEN’S BATHROOM – CONTINUOUS

Claude/ia splashes water on her face with uncertainty. Looks at herself in the mirror.

CLAUDE/IA: Holy shit.

Claude/ia’s phone rings. It’s Dylan. She stares at it, watches it flash. Claude/ia turns and looks deadpan/dazed into the CAMERA.

CUT TO:

INT. FRONT DESK – HOTEL PANORAMA

Claudia with the same deadpan/dazed look on her face stands with Jay behind the front desk.

JAY: So let me get this straight, you just had sex with your girlfriend’s mother.

CLAUDIA: Right.

JAY: While pretending to be a man named Claude.

CLAUDIA: Right.

JAY: Man, I mean woman, you’ve really got problems now. Take these towels to the seventh floor.

Puts a stack of towels in Claudia’s arms. Walks her to the elevator. Jay hits elevator button.

CLAUDIA: You have to help me. You’re the one who got me into this shit in the first place.

JAY: Me!

CLAUDIA: You were the one who sent me to that (sarcastic) “magical sex club.”

Elevator door opens.

JAY: But you’re the one who went there. Grow up.

Claudia, in a daze, steps into the elevator.

Jay sees Dylan outside of the hotel.

JAY (CONT’D): Dude, it’s Dyl—

Elevator door closes.

CLOSE ON DYLAN

As she enters the Hotel Lobby. She scans the room searching for Claudia. Jay watches for a moment and then nonchalantly passes her on the way back to the front desk.

DYLAN: Claudia here?

JAY: And hello to you too, Dylan.

DYLAN (Miss Attitude): Well is she?

JAY: Does it look like it?

DYLAN: She left me a million messages, and then when I tried to call her back, she won’t pick up.

JAY: She’s busy.

Dylan rolls her eyes at him and starts for the door. She hesitates. Realizing that she’s not getting what she wants, she tries a new strategy. Walks back to Jay. Smiles a little.

DYLAN: I’m sorry, Jay. I know I can be a bitch sometimes but I’m not one. Really.

JAY: Oh, turning over a new leaf?

DYLAN: Maybe.

JAY: In that case I have something for you.

He hands her a silver key card.

DYLAN: What’s this… (reads card) A new queer sex club? I’ve been to them all but never heard of this one.

JAY: I’m trying to help a friend.

DYLAN: Claudia? You sent Claudia to a sex club without me?

Jay stares blankly at her.

DYLAN (CONT’D): What’s your game, Jay?

JAY: What am I looking for? No games. Just looking for someone to fall in love with.

DYLAN: What’s your type?

JAY: I like confused girls. Someone who has no idea of what they want.

DYLAN: Sounds boring.

Dylan turns her back and exits.

EXT. CURBSIDE – HOTEL PANORAMA – CONTINUOUS

Dylan feverishly taps away at her cell.

INT. BATHROOM HELEN’S HOTEL ROOM – DAY

Helen, well fucked, sings to herself as she brushes her hair. Her phone rings. She answers.

HELEN: Dylan? (listens) Yes, I’m in Berlin, I’m at the Hotel Panor—(listens) What’s the matter? You sound upset. (listens) Don’t worry, darling. Mommy is coming.

EXT OR INT. BERLIN CAFE – DAY

We pan across the cadre of Berliners until we see Helen and Dylan. They’re already at a standoff, each one silently pouts as she eats her food.

DYLAN: I can’t believe you came all this way to check up on me.

HELEN: Dylan, I am your mother. I care about what happens to you.

DYLAN: Mom, you have to trust me. I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.

HELEN: Okay. A change of subject then. (beat) Tell me about your job.

DYLAN: Well, um, I’m an assistant marketing associate.

HELEN: So, what are your responsibilities?

Helen pokes at her salad.

DYLAN: I have to review reports filed by consultants.

HELEN: Then what?

DYLAN (losing confidence): Then I have to write evaluations.

Helen stares disapprovingly.

DYLAN (CONT’D): Then we have meetings to discuss the reports and evaluations.

Helen annoyingly clicks her spoon on her wineglass.

DYLAN (CONT’D): Then we discuss clients… their needs and their accounts.

HELEN: Have you met any nice men?

DYLAN: Momma.

HELEN: There are so many beautiful men in this city. You haven’t met anyone you like?

DYLAN: There is someone.

Helen smiles.

DYLAN (CONT’D): But they want too much from me.

Helen, thinking of herself, turns up the motherly charm.

HELEN: My darling little Dylan, let’s not forget the number one lesson. When you find a man who’s in love with you, you have to be flexible. Give into their wishes every once in a while. It can’t all be always about you.

As Helen proceeds to dump improvised motherly advice on her, Dylan thinks she sees Claude/ia at the bar.

HELEN (CONT’D): Don’t throw love out the window.

INSERT – CLAUDE/IA AT THE BAR

They turn their face toward the camera and it’s someone else.

BACK TO SCENE

HELEN (looks to the bar): What are you looking at?

DYLAN: Nothing.

CUT TO:

SERIES OF SHOTS: A) Dylan reflective and on the verge of a breakdown in her apartment, kicks Teo and X out the door. She looks sad and disjointed; B) Helen reflective and on the verge while at a museum (sees older couples in love); C) Claudia alone at work, takes out her mustache. She stares at it then tosses it to the ground.

EXT. BERLIN STREET – NIGHT

Dylan huffs down the street in a leopard pants suit. She’s a hot mess. She stomps up to the door of the club and enters.

INT. SEX CLUB – NIGHT

Dylan looks around the room for Claudia and runs straight into Ocean.

OCEAN: Dylan.

DYLAN (defensive): Do I know you?

OCEAN: What matters is that I know you. I am the Master here. And your pleasure is at my bidding. So shut the fuck up.

DYLAN: Okay.

He leads her into the central room.

OCEAN: Spirits?

DYLAN: I don’t need a drink. What I need is a distraction. Where is the action at?

OCEAN: What are you looking for?

Dylan scans the room again.

DYLAN: Trouble.

OCEAN: I can’t hear you. Speak up girl. You want trouble?

DYLAN: Yeah.

Ocean leads Dylan to a doorway. Teo and X are having a rough scene. X is about to tie Teo up and Dylan pushes her way into the room. She looks X dead in the eyes and sticks her hands out.

INT. SEX ROOM AT THE BAR – MOMENTS LATER

Dylan and X play out a rough sex scene. Dylan is forced to give head and gags on dildo/cock, et cetera. Dylan tries to “top from the bottom” but never really gets the upper hand. Ball-gagged, she gets fucked with a dildo, really rough and heartlessly.

INT. SEX ROOM – LATER

Spent, Dylan is alone. She takes out her phone. Sends a text to Helen.

INSERT – DYLAN’S MOBILE

Mommy, I need to see you. Where are you? She deletes the word Mommy and types in Claudia. Hits SEND.

INT. HOTEL ROOM – EVENING

Helen lies next to Claude/ia. The two are fully dressed. Both stare at the ceiling.

HELEN: Let me touch you. You won’t let me touch you.

CLAUDE/IA: Not tonight. Lets just lie next to each other.

HELEN: This is not how I want to spend our last night together.

CLAUDE/IA (sitting up): You’re leaving?

HELEN: I need to work things out at home. My husband and I have to talk. And my daughter… well, I don’t know if she’s going to be all right but I have to let her go.

Claude/ia tenses up.

HELEN (CONT’D): But let’s forget all of my drama and get into a little of it here and now. (beat) I want to suck that sweet cock of yours then have you bring it deep inside me.

Helen kisses him long and softly. So soft that he melts a little.

CLAUDE/IA: Really?

HELEN (dreamy): Yeah.

Claude/ia pulls away.

Forgot the dildo.

CLAUDE/IA: How about I fuck first then drinking… I mean a drink first and then fucking.

HELEN (confused): What?

Claude/ia leaps out of bed.

CLAUDE/IA: Remember I’m a charmer. I’ll be right back with the champagne.

She runs out of the room.

SERIES OF SHOTS: A) Claude/ia runs past Jay at front desk. B) Claude/ia grabs bag with sex toys from back room.

CLAUDE/IA: (to self) Strap-on, lube, condom, all there.

C) Claude/ia searches through wine rack for a bottle of champagne.

EXT. CURBSIDE HOTEL PANORAMA – SAME

Cabby rolls up to the curb. Dylan and Teo are in back, Dylan has a faraway, pensive look on her face.

TEO: Now what’s wrong? Aren’t we going to Kate’s party? X will be there.

DYLAN: I’ll only be a second. Come on.

She hands over the fare and Dylan and Teo exit. Dylan’s wallet falls to the floor of the cab.

INT. LOBBY, HOTEL PANORAMA- CONTINUOUS

DYLAN: Five minutes.

Dylan walks off. Teo gives a pissed look and flops down in a chair in the hotel lobby. Teo takes out her mobile and starts to text. Jay walks through the hotel lobby. He notices Teo. What a beauty.

JAY: Hello.

Jay smiles at her and Teo smiles at Jay.

INT. ELEVATOR – HOTEL PANORAMA – CONTINUOUS

Claude/ia anxiously pushes at the buttons. Dylan approaches.

DYLAN: Claudia…? What are you done up like that for?

CLAUDE/IA: Ahhh… Jay. He’s taking me out to a…

DYLAN (disappointed): Sex club?

CLAUDE/IA: Right.

DYLAN: Forget Jay and the club, you look hot. Let’s go to a room and make love. You got my texts, right?

CLAUDE/IA: Of course. Of course.

INSERT – CLAUDIA’S MOBILE PHONE

On night table next to Helen.

INT. LOBBY – HOTEL PANORAMA – CONTINUOUS

JAY: Everything okay?

TEO: Just trying to solve all my problems at once.

JAY: Maybe I can help. What’s on your mind?

TEO (rapid): Like I really love being a sex worker but it is also kind of boring and depressing, but it’s okay and you know, good… sometimes. I mean what is love anyway? I mean I want to live with someone, but then I was thinking about having a baby, but I really want to be alone… you know? Like I really want to be an actress, but maybe I should go back to school but who wants to do that, right? Or maybe something else, right?

JAY: Absolutely.

TEO: I used to know what I want but lately I have no idea what I want anymore. I’m so confused, but that’s okay, isn’t it?

Jay’s in love. He turns to the CAMERA and smiles.

TEO (CONT’D): I can’t stand commitment but I want stability… (a beat)

They exchange looks of meaningful connection. Jay takes Teo’s hand and they kiss. Or INSERT a flash scene of them fucking.

INT. ELEVATOR – HOTEL PANORAMA – CONTINUOUS

Dylan moves to Claudia. She kisses her long and softly. So soft, it melts her.

DYLAN: We’ll get a room and have makeup sex. Whatever you want. I want to please you.

She kisses her again. Sees sex toys in bag.

DYLAN (CONT’D): You did get my message, didn’t you?

CLAUDIA (lying): No. I mean yes.

Claudia looks at her wide eyed. Think quick.

CLAUDIA (CONT’D): You know what…

Claudia moves in close to her. Kisses her hard.

CLAUDIA (CONT’D): How’s about whatever you want.

DYLAN: You’re kidding?

Claudia fakes an honest smile.

CLAUDIA: Do I look like I’m kidding?

Claudia gives her signature smile. The elevator doors open. Claudia quickly leads Dylan to the room across the hall from Helen. She pushes Dylan inside, turns and makes an exasperated face at Helen’s door.

CLAUDIA (CONT’D): I’ll be right back. I have to… tell Jay to go on without me.

DYLAN: Why don’t you just call him?

CLAUDIA: Ahhh… I left my mobile at the front desk.

DYLAN: Well use the house phone.

Claudia can’t think of an answer. She walks out of the room. The door slams shut. A beat. Dylan walks to bed. She stares at it. A beat. She frantically rips all the bedding off the mattress. She starts to undress.

INT. HELEN’S HOTEL ROOM – SAME

Helen is spread out on the bed in a sexy black leather number as Claude/ia enters.

HELEN: What took you so long, lover? (beat) I’m all yours.

Claude/ia sets the champagne on the night table and grabs her phone.

CLAUDE/IA (OFF CAMERA): Dim all the lights and put on the blindfold. (takes off Helen’s glasses) I’ll be right out.

HELEN: But I want to see you face-to-face as you make love to me.

CLAUDE/IA: Well I want to fuck you doggie-style and rough.

HELEN: I do like the sound of that, you nasty boy. And I wanna fuck you too.

Claude/ia makes a beeline for the bathroom.

INT. HELEN’S BATHROOM – CONTINUOUS

Shaken, Claude/ia takes off her pants and puts on her harness. She splashes water on her face. Big sigh.

CLAUDE/IA (to self): Like mother, like daughter but damn… (looks in mirror) You can do this.

INT. FRONT DESK – HOTEL PANORAMA – CONTINUOUS In a LONG SHOT we see the Cabby as she approaches the FRONT DESK CLERK and mumbles something while making a gesture with the wallet, Dylan (tall, shapely, et cetera). The DESK CLERK mumbles something back and motions to the elevator.

BLACK – HELEN’S ROOM – CONTINUOUS

Claude/ia bangs into stuff as she makes her way to the door.

HELEN (OFF CAMERA): Claude… what sort of game is this? Claude?

CLAUDE/IA (OFF CAMERA): It’s called “in a minute.”

HELEN: What?

CLAUDE/IA: In a minute. I’ll be back in a minute.

HELEN: But you just…

Claude/ia makes a quick exit.

INT. HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

A half-dressed Claudia dashes across the hall and into…

INT. DYLAN’S HOTEL ROOM – CONTINUOUS

A totally nude Dylan gives Claude/ia a playful sexy look as she approaches her. Grabs the full shaft of the strap-on. Strokes it.

DYLAN: You won’t be needing that will you, sailor?

She wrestles the harness off of Claude/ia.

Helen calls from across the hall.

HELEN (OFF CAMERA) (we can hardly make it out): Claude!

DYLAN: Who was that?

CLAUDIA (to Dylan): I have to deliver something to the guest across the hall. I’ll be right back.

DYLAN: Oh no you don’t. Not so fast. You’re not gonna get away from me until I get a piece of you.

As Dylan puts the harness and dildo on herself, Claude/ia runs out of the room.

DYLAN (CONT’D): I get it. We’re playing “in a minute” right?

Dylan jumps to the chase. Her glasses fall off but she follows anyway.

We see the hallway from her new POV. Very blurry.

INT. HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

The elevator doors open and the Cabby, holding Dylan’s wallet, sees a half-dressed Claude/ia run across the hall. A beat. A nude Dylan wearing a dildo and harness follows. Cabby stares wide eyed. A beat. The elevator doors close.

INT. HELEN’S HOTEL ROOM – CONTINUOUS

The room is dimly lit. Claude/ia runs into the bathroom and closes the door.

DYLAN: Pssst…

HELEN: Come here…

Dylan enters, groping the walls.

HELEN (CONT’D): Mmmm, baby, now…

Dylan adjusts her cock and gropes through the near darkness and feels what she thinks is Claudia but is really Helen, on all fours. She mounts her. They slowly get into it. As Helen moans, Dylan is overcome by romantic feelings.

DYLAN: Ahh… yes…

INT. HELEN’S BATHROOM – CONTINUOUS

Claude/ia listens at the door. Sweating bullets and freaking out.

INT. HELEN’S HOTEL ROOM – CONTINUOUS

Helen and Dylan are both moaning with pleasure. Both whispering.

DYLAN: Harder…

HELEN: Yes…

DYLAN: Good.

HELEN: Yes… yes.

They get into it.

INT. HELEN’S ROOM – CONTINUOUS

Claude/ia bursts into the room. Turns on lights. Helen takes off the blindfold. Dylan and Helen look at her.

DYLAN: Claudia?

Claude/ia stares at the scene.

HELEN: Claude?!

DYLAN: Claude? Claudia.

Claude/ia looks away but…

HELEN: Claudia?

Claude/ia giggles nervously. Dylan still has her cock inside Helen.

Dylan and Helen look at each other. They are shocked.

HELEN (CONT’D): Dylan!

DYLAN: Mommy!

A knock at the door. It opens. It’s the Cabby who goes unnoticed.

CLAUDE/IA: Helen?

DYLAN: Helen?!

A beat then… Dylan dismounts.

CLAUDE/IA: (sorry) Dylan. (then) Helen.

Long pause. The trio finally notice the Cabby. They all turn to him.

CABBY: Don’t look at me, I’m just here to return her… (points at Dylan) wallet.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT/EXT. BAHNHOF/Train station – DAY

Helen, Claudia and Dylan exchange good-byes on the train platform.

Helen gives wisdom and love, comedy.

HELEN: Well, I won’t be telling your father anything about this.

CLAUDIA: Maybe you should. It might help.

HELEN: I’ll think about it. (to Dylan) Darling, there is something I want to tell you.

DYLAN (impatient adolescent sigh): Yes, Mommy?

HELEN: The person who is right there in front of you is the only one who matters. That is your real life.

DYLAN: Okay.

HELEN: I want you to have a real life.

DYLAN: Okay.

HELEN: You deserve it.

A teary-eyed Helen boards the train. Dylan and Claudia watch as it departs.

CLAUDIA: So, now what?

Dylan gives Claudia a sly look.

DYLAN (overcome): I… I…

CLAUDIA: You’re sorry?

DYLAN: No. But I…

CLAUDIA: You want to be kinder and more loving to me?

DYLAN: Not exactly, but…

CLAUDIA: You figured out that I’m the person who is here for you right now.

DYLAN: Yes.

They kiss.

DYLAN (CONT’D): Now can I fuck you?

CLAUDIA: Now can I trust you?

DYLAN (big intake of breath): Yes.

CLAUDIA: Sometimes it pays to listen to your mother.

They kiss under very romantic nineteen-forties movie music, maybe with their embrace dissolving into a heart-shaped frame like in the olden days.

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

ANAMIKA has published three novels, including Hem and Football and its sequel, Hem and Maxine, dealing with women’s football and lesbian love, as well as stories in previous editions of Best Lesbian Erotica, and in Women’s Era. Anamika lives in a satellite township near Delhi, India.

AMAL ARABI has been writing since she was in the womb. Her first postnatal work, a poem, was published when she was seven years old. Like Socrates she was accused of corrupting the minds of youth. Unlike Socrates, she was not made to drink poison. She currently lives in Beirut where the youth are already corrupt.

CHEYENNE BLUE’s (cheyenneblue.com) erotica has appeared in over eighty anthologies, including Best Women’s Erotica, Cowboy Lust, Best Lesbian Romance, Lesbian Lust and Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex. She currently lives by the beach in Queensland, Australia.

DIANA CAGE’s most recent books include Mind Blowing Sex: A Woman’s Guide (Seal, 2012) and the forthcoming Lesbian Sex Bible (Quiver, 2014). She lives in Brooklyn with the poet EC Crandall and teaches writing at Pratt Institute.

CHERYL DUNYE is a film director, producer, screenwriter, editor and actress. She is the director and creator of the first African-American lesbian feature film, The Watermelon Woman. She was born in Liberia, and grew up in Philadelphia.

NAIRNE HOLTZ is the author of This One’s Going to Last Forever (Insomniac, 2009), a Lambda Literary Award Finalist, and The Skin Beneath (Insomniac, 2007), which was shortlisted for Quebec’s McAuslan Prize. Currently, she lives in Toronto with her lover, works as a librarian and is writing another novel.

CHERYL JIMMERSON attended Georgia State University, where she studied literature. She enjoys crafting stories with strong gay characters. She hails from a unique family in Georgia where three siblings identify as queer.

D. L. KING (dlkingerotica.blogspot.com), editor of the Lammy Award – winning The Harder She Comes, and Under Her Thumb, Seductress, Carnal Machines, The Sweetest Kiss and Lammy Finalist Where the Girls Are, can also be found in Best Lesbian Erotica, Say Please, Girl Fever and many more. She’s published two novels and publishes and edits Erotica Revealed.

CATHERINE LUNDOFF (catherinelundoff.com) is a former archeologist, former grad student and former bookstore owner turned professional computer geek, author and editor. She is a transplanted Brooklynite who now lives in Minneapolis with her wife and the two cats, which own them. Silver Moon (Lethe Press, 2012) is her latest book.

TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS writes sexy stories for lusty romantics of all persuasions. Her work has appeared in Best Bondage Erotica 2013; The Harder She Comes: Butch-Femme Erotica; Lesbian Cops and other provocatively titled anthologies. Look for BDSM romance Knowing the Ropes and the paranormal Duals and Donovans series from Samhain.

SARAH SCHULMAN is the author of nine novels, including The Cosmopolitans, The Mere Future, The Child, Shimmer, Rat Bohemia, Empathy and People In Trouble and five nonfiction books, including Israel/Palestine and the Queer International, The Gentrification of the Mind, Ties That Bind, Stagestruck and My American History. Her plays include: Carson McCullers, Manic Flight Reaction, Enemies, A Love Story, adapted from I.B. Singer, and she is coproducer with Jim Hubbard of the feature documentary United In Anger: A History of ACT UP, directed by Jim Hubbard. Her many awards include a Guggenheim (Playwriting), Fulbright (Judaic Studies), and ten Lambda Literary Award Nominations.

SINCLAIR SEXSMITH (mrsexsmith.com) writes the personal online project Sugarbutch Chronicles: The Sex, Gender, and Relationship Adventures of a Kinky Queer Butch Top at sugarbutch.net. They have contributed to more than twenty anthologies, and edited Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica. They teach workshops on gender and sexuality throughout the United States.

After a childhood spent in tree houses and libraries, A. L. SIMONDS became an office drone and zine-maker before alighting in Toronto for library school. Now an unemployed archivist, she plays servant to the handsomest cat on Earth and writes all the time. She isn’t nearly as cynical as she wishes she were.

SAM TWEED is a Queer Lebanese Jew, who lives in Brooklyn with her partner and their cat, Xena. She is a documentary film producer and blogs at queerarabs.tumblr.com.

DOLAR VASANI was born in Uganda. Her family moved to England after being expelled by President Amin. In 2013, she published her first book, Not Yet Uhuru: Lesbian Flash Fiction. Set mostly in eastern and southern Africa, the stories are about the struggles of coming out, being out and staying out. She lives with her partner in South Africa and Europe.

The writing gods blessed SHARON WACHSLER (sharonwachsler.com) when they sent a woman named Stormy to register her for an MRI. Sharon’s erotica appears in dozens of anthologies, including Periphery, The Big Book of Bondage, Girl Fever and previous editions of Best Lesbian Erotica and Best American Erotica.

LUCIEN C. WEST steps lightly in the strange state of Texas, enjoying the clear springs, cypress trees and occasional BBQ. She is a playwright, cook, songwriter and poet, publishing her first short story in the ancient anthology Testimonies: A Collection of Lesbian Coming Out Stories issued by Alyson Press.

XAN WEST (xanwest.wordpress.com) is the pseudonym of a BDSM educator. Xan’s “First Time Since,” won honorable mention for the 2008 NLA John Preston Short Fiction Award. Xan is widely published, including stories in Best SM Erotica 2 & 3, Best Lesbian Erotica 2011 & 2012, and Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica.

ABOUT THE EDITOR

KATHLEEN WARNOCK (kathleenwarnock.com; Twitter:@kwarnockny) is a playwright and editor. Her erotica has appeared in Best Lesbian Erotica and other anthologies. Her fiction, essays and reviews have been seen in Love, Christopher Street; ROCKRGRL; BUST, Ms.; It’s Only Rock & Roll, and the liner notes for the Joan Jett CD Unfinished Business. Her plays have been produced in New York City, regionally in the United States, and internationally. Rock the Line was produced by Emerging Artists Theater in New York and won the Robert Chesley Award for Emerging Playwright. She is curator of the Robert Chesley/Jane Chambers Playwrights Project for TOSOS Theatre. She is Ambassador of Love for the International Dublin Gay Theatre Festival, and a member of the Dramatists Guild. She curates the Drunken! Careening! Writers! series at KGB Bar in NYC.

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2014 by Kathleen Warnock.

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc., 2246 Sixth Street, Berkeley, California 94710.

eISBN: 978-1-627-78015-5

“Run, Jo, Run,” by Cheyenne Blue, originally appeared in Girls Who Score: Hot Lesbian Erotica, edited by Ily Goyanes (Cleis Press, 2012); “Nocturne,” by Cheryl Jimmerson, was previously published in Skin to Skin: The Art (May 2013); “Reunion at St. Mary’s,” by Catherine Lundoff, originally appeared in Lesbian Lust, edited by Sacchi Green (Cleis Press, 2010); “Birthday Butch,” by Teresa Noelle Roberts, originally appeared in The Harder She Comes: Butch-Femme Erotica, edited by D. L. King (Cleis Press, 2012); “A Good Workout,” by Sinclair Sexsmith, originally appeared in Girls Who Score: Hot Lesbian Erotica (Cleis Press, 2012); “Stitch and Bitch,” by A. L. Simonds, was previously published in Agony/Ecstasy: Original Stories of Agonizing Pleasure/ Exquisite Pain, edited by Jane Litte (Berkley, 2011); “My Bagandan Princess,” by Dolar Vasani, appears in Not Yet Uhuru: Lesbian Flash Fiction (Bright Pen, 2013).

Content

BEST LESBIAN EROTICA 2014
Edited by Kathleen Warnock

FOREWORD: EDITING A LIFE

A GOOD WORKOUT Sinclair Sexsmith

REUNION AT ST. MARY’S Catherine Lundoff

HEY, STRANGER Diana Cage

BIG LESBO CUPCAKERY D. L. King

LAKE TRAVIS STEAM Lucien C. West

IMAGING Sharon Wachsler

BIRTHDAY BUTCH Teresa Noelle Roberts

NOCTURNE Cheryl Jimmerson

STITCH AND BITCH A. L. Simonds

CALL FOR SUBMISSION Nairne Holtz

RUN, JO , RUN Cheyenne Blue

TONGUE IN CHEEK Amal Arabi

WHAT I NEED Xan West

BRIDGE LINE Anamika

WHO AT MY DOOR IS STANDING Sam Tweed

MY BAGANDAN PRINCESS Dolar Vasani

Editor’s note:

MOMMY IS COMING

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

ABOUT THE EDITOR

Copyright Page