Wild Nights

by Therese Szymanski

  She shifts uneasily in her seat most of the night.

  When I leave, she’s there, but something’s different. She doesn’t take my arm; instead she walks beside me with her hands in her pockets. Like she’s afraid of touching me. Gets on the subway without saying a word and is silent all the way to my apartment. Finally, inside, she says we have to talk. About how I can’t get sloppy, can’t let them see what’s going on. But I don’t understand.

  She sighs. “Remember when they were talking about lesbians before the movement?”

  I nod.

  “Well, who in the hell do you think they were talking about? Lesbians like me. They think I want to be a man because I want a woman who looks like a woman. Because I want someone who wants to be beautiful for me. Someone who wants me because of the way I am. And yes, someone who actually wants to have sex, wants to be made love to, not just talk about it in theory. Someone like you.”

  I didn’t want her to know I already thought about this. Why she was different from the women in the group. And why I felt more comfortable once she started coming. So instead, I just nod.

  “I mean, do you think I act like a man? I don’t. And I don’t want to be one. I don’t want to be anything but what I am. But they just don’t get it.”

  She’s quiet for a long time.

  I ask her why she’s hiding what she is, why it matters what they think?

  “It matters,” she says. “It matters to me. You haven’t been on the outside of everything your whole life. You don’t know what it feels like. To inspire that kind of disgust. To have women afraid of being around you. Like you’re going to jump them the first time you get the chance.”

  For a moment, I think I see a tear. I reach out for her and she comes to me, which I hadn’t expected, and we hug and touch and I thought I was comforting her, but soon she has me out of my clothes, right on the couch and my legs are wrapped around her, and I feel her hips move, grinding harder and harder into my body, making me writhe and scratch her with my newly grown nails. Then she moves down my body, spreads my legs and licks me, her tongue moving in and out and up and down. Until I’m so wet that I cry out for her to fuck me, to take me, take me hard. To hell with what they said, at that moment, I do want her to possess me, I want to feel that she owns me, controls me. And she does, she does, her whole hand sliding deep inside me so slowly and I scream and buck and see lights behind my eyes. And after I feel as if we’ve broken through something, gone somewhere we’re not supposed to be, but we’re there now and we’re in it together. Conspirators. She leans her head down at me, kisses my lips, bites my earlobe just a bit and whispers, “Now you do belong to me. You’re mine.”

  Knowing that makes me want her even more.

  That week, she comes over every night too, and stays almost all night most times. When we aren’t making love, she tells me stories of what it was like when she came out in the ’60s, the bars and the bar fights and drinking and drugs. The hidden clues, what you looked for to find other lesbians, what you wore, how you held a cigarette. And all the hiding and lies and why she wants a change, why it doesn’t seem so much to ask for her to just hide her old gay ways, if it means being part of something she needs. If it means support and real friends and just a little bit of respect. I want to understand. I want to keep her secrets. But I don’t see how it’s much of a change from all the lies she had to tell before.

  But I’m not that good at hiding. I haven’t had the practice. I start wearing nail polish and lipstick all the time. Long dangly earrings and chains that sway against my breasts when I walk. I wear skirts and heels almost every day. And the following Tuesday, I decide I’m not going to let them do to me what they’re doing to her, and I stride into the meeting in a short black leather skirt and red silk blouse, Revlon Red nails and lips and my hair in a soft French twist with loose little curls that make me look like I’ve just been ravaged.

  I look like the poster girl for the patriarchy. But only if you don’t know enough to know what you’re actually looking at.

  She wants me to believe she’s not looking at me, but the truth is, she can’t keep her eyes off me. She waits until she thinks no one is watching her, then sneaks a look my way. Her face is hard, she looks angry, in fact I’m sure she is, not just at me for being so defiant, but also at herself. That she let this happen, let me happen, that she couldn’t keep things under wraps. Her fear of coming undone, doing the wrong thing, especially now, when she’s making such progress at being accepted. Being tolerated. Being emasculated. Yes, that’s it. There’s no good gender-neutral word for it, but that’s exactly what this is doing to her.

  The topic of the evening is about being a willing victim to the patriarchy, about dressing to please men, being a walking advertisement for rape. I guess I’ve inspired this, but I don’t join in, don’t defend myself because I’m too busy watching her, too busy thinking about how I’d like to saunter across the room, hike up my skirt, climb on her lap and straddle her thighs. Open my blouse and slide one of my breasts from its lacy red encasing, caress my nipple with my own painted nails because I know she likes to watch me touch myself. Pry her mouth open with a lipstick kiss and feed her one of my breasts. Arch up against her so she can feel the heat between my legs, let her catch the scent of me, while she sucks, bites. Then guide her fingers under my skirt, past the scalloped stocking edge to the wet flesh above, no panties, no, just open wet cunt and all for her. Rock against her fingers. Flood her hand. Whisper how I want her to make me come, that only she can fuck me this good, this well. Seduce her, I think. Just thinking the word makes my cunt contract. I want to make her want to possess me. Make her want me so bad nothing else matters. Just like I have before on my couch, but tonight I want to do it right here, right now, in front of all of these women who demand she be something she’s not to win their acceptance. Those who want her to be less than what she is. I want to show them they can’t touch us. That we are what we are and we don’t need their approval. Their tolerance. No more than we need it from the rest of the world. And I get so lost in the fantasy of her spreading my legs and fucking me openly at the radical lesbian feminist group meeting that I don’t even realize everyone has left and I’m sitting alone in the room.

  She’s waiting for me when I walk out and she’s furious. She can’t believe I was so openly defiant. Do I have any idea what these women think of me now? Or her? I want to tell her that from the way she treats me in the meetings, there’s no way anyone could know we’re lovers, but I don’t bother. She tells me maybe they’re right, that women shouldn’t treat other women the way she’s treated me and dozens more. They’re getting inside her head. They’ve already gotten to her. There’s no talking to her now, no way to explain why what they think doesn’t matter. She needs their approval, even if it means living a lie. But thanks to her, I’ve learned I don’t need it. And I don’t want anyone who does. So I don’t say a word. Don’t ask to be forgiven. And she’s not expecting that.

  In the end, she hugs me, there on the street, in the yellow light in front of the community centre and whispers “this is about me, not you. It’s what you make me want to be, what you make of me. And I can’t let that happen. Not now. Not again.”

  I stand there in the dark, watching the first butch I ever fell in love with walk away and all I can think of is the stupid playground poem. I’m rubber and you’re glue, what bounces off me, sticks to you. I take a vow to never let them, any “them” get to me. The world isn’t ever going to tell me what to be or how to be it. But neither are the women of the Tuesday meetings. So I stop going to meetings, stop trying to fit in, eventually give myself full permission to wear the clothes I like and seduce the kind of women I want. I learn that if you’re afraid of what’s wild inside you, others will be too. And before long, I find my kind are actually in fashion again. For a while anyway.

  But she did go back to the meeting and said and did the right things, and wrote the book she had talked about. Then another, and anoth
er and then finally one about how hard it was to be butch in the lesbian feminist movement. The things it did to her. The way it made her change.

  Last Saturday, I drove nearly 200 miles to hear her read from it. I sat in the front row, with my legs discreetly crossed beneath my tight black skirt, my green cashmere sweater unbuttoned just enough. I am what I am. Thanks to her or in spite of her, I learned to be proud of it. To protect it. And in a room of mostly what were once Tuesday night women, she read of how the movement had done so much good. And about the cost to her and women like her, and how no one had wanted to talk about that. And she couldn’t keep her eyes off me. Later, while she signed books for a crowd of her readers, I waited until it was my turn. I had to know how the story turns out. When she reached for my book, I leaned in close, as if to whisper “it’s been a long time” or “good to see you again,” but instead I brushed my breast against her shoulder and dropped my hotel keycard into the pocket of her black denim shirt. Good choice. Her eyes are still brilliant blue, her hands still look strong. I grazed my lips, soft in Sephora Sheer Mauve #87, against her neck, her cheek. Then I turned on my heel and felt her eyes on me as I walked out of the hall.

  I didn’t get home until Tuesday night.

  Going Down

  Becky Arbogast

  I always get a thrill out of staying in a hotel, mostly because I love the fact that someone else has to cater to my every whim. Unlike most people, I like the feeling of being away from home, and three days in a luxury hotel is enjoyable for me even if it means the days are full of boring business meetings. My first agenda after settling into my room on Sunday evening is to orient myself to the hotel. To my pleasure, I discover my daily commute will be two minutes down ten floors to the business center, and since I am not a morning person, I appreciate the valuable minutes of quality sleep this and room service will provide for me.

  Monday morning, my mind still hazy from sleep, I step into the elevator and my eyes are drawn to her immediately. She stands slightly taller than me with wavy, black, shoulder length hair. Her appearance is captivating. Standing across from her, I try not to stare but the thin material of her T-shirt stretches across her chest and I can see the outline of her breasts. Her jeans are molded to her body perfectly and the polished black boots convey a confident butch image. I feel my heart race as her gaze finds mine. She raises her eyebrows, acknowledging my perusal of her body, and I try to shift my focus to the numbers above the elevator panel. When the doors open to the business center, I catch her watching my exit, and her gaze is so intense my breath catches just at being the focus of her attention.

  I dream about her the entire day, returning again and again to the vision of her sexy stance, and it keeps my body in a constant state of arousal. Fantasies about what her hands could do to me haunt me throughout dinner and during the elevator ride back to my room. I hold my breath at every turn, hoping she will appear again.

  Tuesday morning, I step into the elevator to find her leaning against the rear wall as if waiting patiently for me. Pushing my way through the crowded elevator to the spot directly in front of her, then turning my back, I glance up into the mirror above the doors and watch her eyes devour my body with a gaze filled with desire. She finally looks up and catches me watching her. Again she raises her eyebrows in a question, and I want to scream yes, yes, whatever you want.

  When the elevator stops two floors down, I can barely contain my enthusiasm to see more people waiting to file in. The temptation to press against her is almost more than I can resist, and the space between us radiates with heat from her body. I step back, creating room for the new occupants, and feel her hands on my sides pulling me into the security of her arms. I search for her eyes in the mirror to reassure myself she is more than a fantasy. Her body is warm and hard, her breasts firm against my back, and I push against her, craving to be closer. The elevator bell signals our arrival at my floor, and I sigh as she releases me. Looking back as I step out of the elevator, I long to return and let her ravish my body. Instead, I resign to spend another day dreaming of her caressing every inch of me.

  By Wednesday morning, my entire body is humming with anticipation. I watch the clock, hoping to match the time exactly to the last two morning encounters. Will she be there? It hurts to even imagine that she might not be. As I walk to the elevator, the seam of my khakis pushes my body into a heightened frenzy. I consider returning to my room but I know that my body craves more than my own touch. Every part of me aches to be molded by her strong, delicate hands.

  The elevator doors open and there she is relaxing against the rear wall. Though this morning there are only a few people in the elevator, no one seems to notice how close we stand. Facing the doors, directly in front of her, the heat from her body washes over me. My muscles quiver as she pulls me firmly against her, resting her head on my shoulder and pressing her lips against my ear.

  “Be patient,” she whispers softly.

  Nodding, afraid to trust my voice, my body relaxes into hers. When the elevator stops at the business center, she tightens her grip, holding me in place while everyone exits, then steps around me pushing the button to make the doors close. When she turns to face me, I slide my arms around her waist and pull her into a tight embrace. She presses her lips against my neck and the heat of her mouth melts my flesh. Her hands slip between us to caress my breasts, stroking my aroused nipples. I inhale deeply, trying to catch my breath.

  “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” she asks in a husky voice.

  “Only here with you,” I manage to say.

  Struggling to remain standing on my trembling legs, she senses my weakness and slides her leg between mine, providing support for both of us. Her body moves in rhythm against me as she presses her soft, warm lips hard against mine. Her tongue gently explores the inside of my mouth, and we both moan as the kiss deepens. I can imagine running my tongue over her entire body, tasting all of her. She moves to my zipper and deftly opens the front of my khakis. As she slides inside, the elevator bell announces another stop. Quickly, she turns her back to me, blocking my partially undressed state from the other early morning travelers.

  Several women step in but none seem to notice the shiver that courses through my body as I think about how little it would take to bring me to climax. My lungs scream for oxygen, and I am overwhelmed with an undeniable hunger for her. Sliding my hands under her shirt, luxuriating in the softness of her skin, I gently rake my fingernails along her rib cage. I gasp softly when my fingers discover her naked breasts; they mold perfectly to my hands and my thumbs stroke a circle around her nipples. She shifts slightly to conceal her hand sliding between us and into my open khakis. Burying my head into her back, I am unable to conceal my excitement as her fingers explore the wet folds between my legs.

  The elevator bell reminds me that we are not alone. As the women exit together, the last one gives us a backward smile and a knowing wink. Without moving her hand from inside my boxers, my companion presses the stop button as soon as the doors close.

  “Where were we?” she whispers, turning to face me.

  I pull her against me; kissing her in answer, then gasp as she begins to move her fingers again.

  “You are so wet.”

  “Only for you,” I whisper back.

  As her fingers stroke me gently, her other hand unbuttons my shirt and slides it off my shoulders. She easily maneuvers the front clasp on my bra and pushes it out of her way, allowing her tongue to flick back and forth across my nipples. The passionate moan she coaxes from my body is deep and filled with desire.

  My fingers scrape down her back, sliding around her body and over her stiff nipples to the fly on her jeans. The buttons open easily and my hand travels down her stomach, seeking the heat that awaits me inside her briefs. The sweet smell of her pushes me closer to the edge. Sliding my fingers through her wetness, I’m careful to avoid the rigid tip of her, knowing she won’t be able to hold on. Her upper body presses into mine, holding both o
f us up against the side of the elevator. I thrust one finger, then a second inside her, and she pushes her hips hard against my hand. My palm slides across her clit, matching the rhythm of her hand on me.

  “Oh yes.”

  “Please don’t stop.”

  My spinning head and the explosion of light behind my eyes keep me from knowing exactly which of us is speaking. She slides a finger into me as we both go over the edge. We cling to each other, holding on to the moment.

  “Wow,” I murmur into her neck. “You are so hot.”

  She rests her head on my shoulder, breathing deeply. I apply pressure with the palm of my hand and she squeezes me tighter. As she gently slides her fingers across my clit, I push hard against her hand, begging for more, and she strokes me gently, bringing me quickly to another orgasm.

  We wrap our arms around each other, waiting for our desire to subside. After a minute or two, she releases me, putting space between us and begins to adjust my clothes.

  “Your meetings are over today?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Then I guess I’ll see you when you get home tonight,” she says with that devilish smile I love so much.

  “I can’t wait,” I whisper eagerly.

  Just One Night

  Tanya Turner

  “Are you a porn star?” she asked as I took my seat, preparing for the screening.

  I looked at this older woman, her hair sprinkled with gray, her eyes crinkled in a friendly way, and laughed. “Me? No, but I know people in the film.” I was wearing a plunging corset top that showed off my ample boobs and the miniest skirt I could find, and was flattered that she’d even think to ask such an outrageous question. Then again, we were about to watch a snippet of a XXX film, and the entire crowd of partygoers was salivating with anticipation. I sat alone, near the woman and her friend, and tried not to feel self-conscious while on-screen all manner of sex took place, men and women and women and women in various contorted positions, in full view. I knew some people in attendance, but they were seated far away, and I could tell this woman was checking me out. I tried to set that aside and just enjoy the movie, as the scenes got more and more outrageous. None of it really phased me until the end, when I saw one girl balanced on her hands and feet, raising her ass into the air in a modified push-up. Exercise had never looked sexier.