Girl Crush

by R. Gay

  I didn’t see that one coming. Jeanine’s looking at me like she’s waiting for me to be all grossed out, but I don’t care about that kind of stuff. I shrug like it’s nothing and say, “So I guess now we’ve gotta talk about girls too, huh?”

  Jeanine smiles like it’s Christmas and just about knocks me down with the biggest hug ever. Then she pulls back just a little and brushes her lips against mine. Really didn’t see that one coming.

  I say, “You might like the girls, but I still like the boys, okay?”

  She looks a little crestfallen but picks herself up like only Jeanine can and shrugs.

  “Yeah, okay. We still good?”

  “Always.”

  And we always have been. We bunked together in college, playing varsity soccer and pulling too many all-nighters, studying and eating pizza and talking about the trouble with guys and the perils of girls. Then one night we drink too much and Jeanine says to me, “Heather, haven’t you ever wondered why all my girlfriends look like you?”

  I can’t say I hadn’t noticed Jeanine’s penchant for girls with long dark hair, blue eyes and pale skin like mine, but I’d been content to leave the subject alone. Jeanine moves closer to me on the couch and runs her fingers through my hair.

  “Jeanine…” I begin, but she doesn’t let me finish. She leans in and catches my mouth with hers, kissing me like a lover and pressing her body against mine. She tastes like wild berry coolers and she’s so very, very soft, and it would be easy to do this thing that she wants, but…

  “You know this isn’t going to happen,” I say, pulling away.

  “It could if you let it.”

  “You’re my best friend.”

  “I could be more.”

  “Jeanine!” I exclaim. There’s a beat of silence. We stare at each other. She sighs and brushes her sandy blonde curls off her shoulders with a wistful smile.

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she says.

  “Besides,” I say, passing her another drink. “You’re forgetting one minor detail.”

  “Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

  “I still like the boys.”

  Jeanine snorts in a decidedly unladylike fashion.

  “What makes you think a boy is so much better than a girl, huh?”

  “What can I say,” I tell her with a shrug, “I like a nice hard cock.”

  Jeanine laughs outright.

  “Oh, Heather,” she says. “What makes you think I don’t?”

  We rent an apartment together after university and spend most of our time working. She dates. I date. Neither of us has much time for a serious relationship so the names and the faces of the guys and the girls all kind of blend together. Until Cary.

  Cary doesn’t look like the girls Jeanine usually dates, which is to say, she doesn’t look like me—at all. Cary’s got a swimmer’s body—strong shoulders and slim hips; she’s hardly got any curves to speak of. Cary has a messy blonde fauxhawk that always looks like she’s just crawled out of bed. A bed she’s been fucking in. I can’t stop staring at her.

  Jeanine and I have always kept our sexual escapades behind our respective closed doors, but it’s like her brain short-circuits with Cary. I come out of my room for a glass of water and Jeanine’s up on the counter with her legs wrapped around Cary’s waist, moaning into the other woman’s mouth and grinding her crotch against Cary’s jeans. I don’t even think they see me.

  I come home from work and Jeanine’s straddling Cary’s lap on the sofa, her head thrown back and her eyes closed as Cary kneads her breasts and nips at her neck seductively. Cary sees me watching from where I’m frozen just inside the door and winks at me. I blush a furious red and retreat to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me, tingling in places I don’t want to tingle.

  It’s no better when they are behind closed doors. Jeanine’s headboard sounds like it’s going to break through the thin wall separating our rooms. The unmistakable sounds of bodies coming together and sweating and giving in to noisy orgasms becomes an insidious soundtrack that steals into my subconscious and torments my dreams.

  I stumble to the bathroom one morning after another near-sleepless night and there’s a cock sitting on the counter, a big one. There’s a big peach-colored cock strapped into a black leather harness sitting on my bathroom counter. I am indignant. Or, at least, I feel like I should be indignant. In truth, imagining Cary wearing this cock is incredibly arousing. Imagining what she can do with it turns me on even more.

  “Great,” I mutter to my reflection. “Just great. I’m lusting after my best friend’s lover. My lesbian best friend’s female lover. Who just happens to have a giant cock. What the hell am I supposed to do about that?” My reflection offers no advice.

  I scrub my way through a brisk shower and get ready for work before heading to the kitchen for a quick bite. They are sitting at the table, looking disgustingly well fucked. Jeanine’s wearing a little pair of baby doll pajamas. Her hair is a wild tangle of curls. Cary’s wearing what look like a pair of boxer briefs and a tight-fitting vintage rock T-shirt that show off her lean thighs and flat stomach. Not that I’m looking.

  They’re sharing a plate of waffles with maple syrup and Cary’s feeding Jeanine, placing tiny morsels between Jeanine’s swollen lips while Jeanine moans with pleasure. A drop of syrup trails down Jeanine’s chin and Cary leans in, lapping up the sticky sweet with her tongue.

  “For crying out loud, get a room!” I snap, downing my coffee too fast and burning my tongue. The sated duo look up at me lazily. I turn to the sink, running myself a glass of cold water.

  “And put some clothes on,” I add over my shoulder as their chairs scrape against the linoleum.

  The next thing I know, Cary’s arm brushes past my waist and her warm hard body is pressed up against my back.

  I jump at the unexpected contact, a jolt of arousal running through me.

  “Relax, Heather,” Cary’s breath whispers across my cheek, “I’m just putting the plates in the sink.” The clatter of said plates into the sink seems to corroborate her story, and her arm retreats as she steps away from me.

  I turn around in time to see the two of them exchange a look I can’t decipher before they disappear back into Jeanine’s room.

  I try earplugs, sleeping with a pillow over my head, relaxing meditations on my iPod; earsplittingly loud, angry music on my iPod. Nothing works. Nothing can drown out the sound of them fucking or the images in my head. I get aroused just hearing Jeanine’s bedroom door click shut. My dreams are filled with a thousand filthy fantasies all centered around Cary.

  I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, when the sounds begin again. First the moaning, then the slow beat of the headboard against our shared wall, a thrumming that increases both in volume and in speed in time with Jeanine’s rising moans.

  “That’s it.”

  I’m off my bed and into the hall before I can question my actions. They’ve got to go. They’ve got to get out. Surely Cary has an apartment somewhere. If they don’t go now, I will go crazy. I make to knock on Jeanine’s door, but it isn’t shut tightly. I find myself instead pushing it wide open and hungrily watching Cary drive her cock into Jeanine’s welcoming pussy.

  Whatever I’d imagined I might say flies out of my head as lust hits me square in the solar plexus. Watching the two of them fuck is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, their bodies moving together sinuously, smooth skin sliding over smooth skin. It takes a moment to realize they’re both watching me, though they haven’t stopped doing what they’re doing.

  “I, uh…that is…your door’s open,” I stammer lamely, reaching for the doorknob as though my intention had been to close the door all along.

  Cary withdraws, raising herself up so that she’s kneeling between Jeanine’s thighs, wet cock jutting like a heavy erection, her small breasts with their tight nipples a juxtaposition that floods my body with arousal. She holds a hand out to me.

  “Why don’t you come over here and s
uck my cock?”

  No subtleties, no seduction—or maybe that’s what this has been all along—but I’m crossing the floor, sliding my hand into hers, joining them on the bed and abandoning any pretense that this isn’t exactly what I want.

  Cary kisses me, and her lips are soft, the way I remember Jeanine’s lips feeling—Jeanine who’s now pressed against my back sliding her hands beneath my T-shirt and kneading my breasts while her own press sensuously against my back. Cary pulls my T-shirt over my head and resumes kissing me, her tongue snaking into my mouth, stealing the moan I can’t stop when her breasts touch mine and Jeanine’s hard nipples skate across my naked back.

  Cary’s cock presses insistently against my pelvis and Jeanine’s hand slides around my waist and beneath my pajama pants, searching out the arousal that overflows from me and mingles with the heavy scent of sex already thick in the air. She strokes a finger through my wetness and circles my clit, whispering in my ear, telling me how beautiful I am.

  Cary’s hand is on my neck, stroking the sensitive skin and sending shivers of pleasure through me. She ends our kiss and gives me a slow smile, her hand guiding me now, pushing me down until my lips kiss the tip of her cock and my tongue swirls around its head, lapping the moisture Jeanine has left there. Jeanine feeds Cary my own wetness, sucked from her fingers and passed from her tongue to Cary’s, a heady kiss feasting on my arousal.

  My lips slide over Cary’s cock, taking her into my mouth. The weight and feel of her are familiar yet different, though the way she moans and the helpless way her hips rock forward tell me she feels me just the same.

  Jeanine draws my pajama pants down over my ass, past my thighs, as far as she can in my kneeling position, and I tense just a little, aware of how exposed I am; aware of the step I am taking; aware that things will never, ever be the same. Jeanine presses her warm lips to the small of my back, and then she slides her fingers inside me and it feels so damn good I can’t think of anything but her moving in and out of me. I moan against Cary’s cock, pressing my ass back into Jeanine as she increases her tempo, my muscles clenching around her fingers as Cary’s hand tightens in my hair and she thrusts into my mouth, whispering to me, telling me how good I feel, telling me how pretty my lips look stretched around her cock.

  Jeanine stops fucking me, but only so she can dispose of my pants entirely and nudge my knees farther apart. She positions herself beneath me and her warm breath between my thighs is all the warning I have before her tongue strokes from the back of my pussy to my aching clit, sending a spasm of pleasure rocketing through me. She grips my thighs with her hands, drawing me to her so that I’m all but sitting on her face as she gorges on me, lapping and sucking and moaning.

  Cary slides her cock out of my mouth and pulls me upright once more, kissing my swollen lips, rolling the tight peaks of my nipples between her fingers. Jeanine’s tongue is doing something divine to my clit. I want to come so badly I’m practically panting into Cary’s mouth. She sits back on her heels, appraising me through heavy-lidded eyes, still pinching my nipples, watching the flush creep over my skin and the tremors of my mounting orgasm build.

  “I want to fuck you,” she says. “I want to bury my cock in you and fuck you until you come.”

  “Yes,” I gasp, though if she doesn’t do it soon, I’m going to come all over Jeanine’s face, which feels like a pretty good option right now.

  Jeanine slides out from beneath me and rises on her knees beside me, running her hands over my body possessively, my belly, my breasts, my still-swollen lips. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me deeply like she did so long ago, her body pressed tightly against mine, tongue sliding into my mouth. This time my mouth opens beneath hers, my tongue stroking against hers. She presses me backward without breaking the kiss, guiding me down until I’m lying on my back and she’s stretched on top of me.

  Cary joins the fray, the three of us kissing and stroking, writhing together in a hungry tangle of limbs until we reach a fever pitch and move by unspoken agreement, Cary positioning herself between my thighs, pressing the head of her cock into my pussy even as Jeanine settles herself above my mouth and I breathe in her arousal, stroking my tongue along her slit, then pushing inside. Jeanine moans against Cary’s mouth, the two of them kissing as Cary sinks deeper into me, filling me, fucking me.

  We’re working ourselves to one of those heaving, sweating, noisy orgasms I’ve been hearing for weeks from my lonely bed on the other side of the wall, only this time I’m at the center of it all, my face buried in Jeanine’s pussy, my hands clamped on her trembling thighs as she spasms and cries out above me a heartbeat before my own climax tears through me, Cary’s cock driving me to unbelievable release even as she reaches her own shuddering end.

  We collapse on the pillows, a mess of bodies trying to catch our breath, giving soft kisses and contented smiles, lazy hands still gently exploring new territories. Then someone’s breath catches and everything stills, shifts and starts all over again.

  Long story short, I don’t think I’ll ever lose my affection for a nice hard cock but I like the girls, too—clever Jeanine. Clever, clever girl.

  DISCOVERING DONNIE

  Cheyenne Blue

  On a good day—and there were a few—she could pass for thirty-five, although she was the far side of forty. Subtle makeup, careful dressing over her long, lean body, and hair tinted to hide the first silver strands all gave her elegance and poise. Jodie was a legal secretary and had worked for Hartmann and Flesch since leaving school. No college, but she was smart and tough and made her way in the firm, doing her job, content to be background scenery in the cutthroat legal world. She worked hard, stayed late without complaint, and molded herself into the efficient automaton that was so prized within the firm.

  After work each day, she walked home to her small apartment on the wrong side of Broadway. Sometimes she’d stop for a glass of wine in the Art Deco jazz bar on the way. It was usually deserted at that hour, and she’d sit on its black vinyl couch and let her mind wander in a way it couldn’t in the prim and correct world of Hartmann and Flesch.

  The day Jodie met Donnie was the day the litigation partner closed the door of his office and told her that from now on she would be working for him. A promotion, she was told: more money, longer hours.

  She made the appropriate restrained noises of appreciation, but when she walked home that night it was with the sinking feeling of things gone wrong. Since when had work defined her life? Was there nothing else? When her head cleared, she realized she was far from the jazz bar; indeed she was nearly at her apartment. The need for a glass of wine was strong but there was no liquor store nearby and she didn’t have wine at home. She hesitated for a moment, then marched resolutely to the small brick bar on the corner of Louisiana and Eighth. She’d passed it often, but the only windows were too high to see into, and it always had a quiet unwelcoming look. Still, she needed that glass of wine, so she hitched her purse higher on her shoulder and stepped through the doors.

  Inside was cozier than she anticipated. There was a curved bar in one corner, a pool table, and a jukebox that was currently playing Garth Brooks. Plates of sausage and buffalo wings sat on the counter; she’d arrived during happy hour.

  Jodie spotted a vacant stool at the end of the counter and worked her way through the cluster at the bar to reach it. It seemed to be a workingman’s pub; construction workers in shorts and singlets rested feet on the bar rail, a few men with their names embroidered on their clothing played pool, and a scattering of women in casual office wear gossiped at a table. She slid onto the last stool, ordered her glass of chardonnay, and reached for a buffalo wing.

  That was when she met Donnie.

  She barely registered him at first. His well-muscled bulky body and a head of thick brown hair were all she noticed. But when her hand brushed his arm while reaching for the wings, the unexpected frisson that shot through her made her pause. That zing of arousal—too long since she’d felt tha
t—made her eyes shoot to the person who’d inspired it.

  Donnie, although she didn’t know his name then, pushed the wings within her reach.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, and her wine arrived—two brimming glasses.

  “I only ordered one,” she said, but the barman pointed to the 2-4-1 DURING HAPPY HOUR sign behind the bar.

  Picking up the first, she drained half of it in one long swallow.

  Donnie watched her. “Bad day?”

  “Yeah. You could say.” She stabbed a sausage with a cocktail stick, envisaging the litigation partner’s smug face.

  Donnie hitched his stool closer. His sturdy thigh brushed her leg, and once again, she marveled at the feeling the innocuous touch produced.

  “Wanna tell me about it?”

  She looked at him and the half smile and sincerity in his face convinced her. Besides, she wanted to vent her indignation, and there was no one else.

  “I got a promotion.”

  “Must be more to it if you’re not happy.”

  “There’s more to life than work.”

  “Like?”

  “Travel. Sport. Hobbies.” She looked him full in the face. “Romance.”

  She caught herself. That was probably the wrong thing to say. It made her seem needy. But he didn’t seem to mind. His eyes were on her face and she could see his appreciation.

  “What will your husband say about that?”

  Very unsubtle, but she didn’t mind; his interest buoyed her. “No husband,” she said succinctly, and drained the first wine, pulling the second in front of her.

  “Boyfriend? Partner? Live-in lover?” He hesitated. “Girlfriend?”

  “None of those.” She glanced at him over the wine, well aware that things were moving quickly, too quickly. It had been a long time.

  He smiled. “Let me buy you dinner and you can tell me about it. A problem shared, and all that.”