“You may have your snack now. Do you want me to feed you the cookie so you don’t get it soggy?”
“Yes, please. Can I have a peanut butter cream?”
“May you have a peanut butter cream,” I taunt. I’m sure she jerks when she hears her name’s homonym, infused with all the governess authority I can muster. Her fingers are probably crowding in her cunt, but she’s standing, so her arm aches. She’s made herself wait to touch her clit until the first bite from the cookie.
“May I?”
“Of course you may. You are the best little girl.” I hold the cookie so she has to stretch her neck to bite it. She spills crumbles all over her chin. I use her undershirt to wipe it off.
“Goodness, it’s delicious. Mmmmmm. Thank you, ma’am,” Mei manages to gasp. Now she’s probably stumbled to her knees, bracing her arm against a wall so she can thrust into her hand as it earnestly fiddles. I can’t believe the things she does without dropping the phone.
“That’s a good girl.” I usually improvise at this point, which as often as not backfires. Tonight, I just pant and moan, giving her the idea my hand is doing something other than unraveling the vinyl strips on my rusty lawn chair. No matter how cheesy I sound, I always hear her whimpering on the line like a puppy who’s heard her master’s car in the garage.
“Thanks, Tea. That felt good.” Mei’s back to her butchy, deep voice.
“What about taking Honey and Burdock to the dog park tomorrow?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you there.” It’s easy to get Mei to commit. Well, to things involving me.
I obeyed Rule Number One: I was on the phone less than an hour, so I definitely hadn’t cheated on my other lover.
When I embark on a visit to Adam in Boston, we’re not on the best terms. They say if you’re always fighting about little things, you don’t want to see the big things. I don’t mind admitting I won’t hand-hold him through the so-called identity crisis he’s having over dating a dyke that doesn’t dig men.
I made the mistake of waiting too long to buy my ticket. Besides getting ripped off, I wasn’t even guaranteed a seat. Adam wasn’t pleased to hear the plan when he called me on my mobile, doubting that I truly wanted to see him. I was going, wasn’t I?
“I’m ruled by Mercury. What do you expect?” I said. I hate when other people shine it on, but I do it all the time.
“That’s right. I forgot to check if it’s going retrograde before I called.” Adam’s enamored of sarcasm, too.
“Look, I’ll get there eventually, okay?” Our phone fights are never the kind that turn heads in airport terminals. They aren’t so loud that they’ll be followed by even louder makeup sex.
Our fighting is like one moment in normal people’s fights, all drawn out and frozen. We have to say each other’s name every minute to make sure we’re still there. I’m doodling on the back of my itinerary so when the page is filled, I have a reason to hang up. The way he says “Tea” gently is a relief, and then they announce my flight.
The hotel is so plush. I feel scummy. When I arrive, someone escorts me to his room. In his presence now, I know we’re still fighting because we’re polite like someone’s listening. I haven’t seen Adam in a month, so I study him for changes. He’s wearing eyeliner, brown not black; it suits him. His fingernails are very short. His lace-up boots, sitting in the closet, have new red laces. I’m too stubborn to apologize and he has no reason to.
I start it innocently enough, with a long, swaying hug that shows him how much he missed me. I bury my nose in his neck. He’s an inch shorter than I am, so it’s easy. He smells like lotion: not a manufactured scent, like peach, but olive oil or lanolin or whatever they stick in unscented lotion. I hate being polite. I want to be second-marriage nonchalant. We only have two days.
I don’t want to admit sex is always the same with him, but it is. Adam puts on music. We tongue kiss, ’cause we have little tongues that don’t choke each other. We sort of dance. We grope under clothing. When I’m wet enough, he fucks me.
I think the glamorous hotel has put him in a strange mood. He smiles a lot while he watches himself touching my tits shyly, like he forgot how. I flew out here for a weekend of shy and forgetful?
He takes my hands and puts them on his chest, hesitantly. “My tits want some attention.”
I tweak his left nipple playfully, but lower my hand to his pants to feel if he’s hard. “Your tits?! I want what’s in here.” Tugging his fly, I pull his hips to me.
“You want what’s in there? Nothing that great is in there.”
“It feels like something. Something that wants out.” I start unzipping his pants.
“What kind of dyke are you, Tea?” He pulls away and looks me in the eye.
“Uh, the kind of dyke that doesn’t like that question! The kind of dyke that doesn’t turn away hard cock when it’s right in front of her.”
“Oh right, I forgot.” He rolls his eyes. “Then I’m gonna take a shower.” Adam shuts the door behind him. What the fuck is his problem? Does he really want to rehash all the bullshit of dykes loving cock, the semiotics of it, for the millionth time?
Hearing the water splashing convinces me he’s really taking a shower and not just hiding out. I unlatch my suitcase on the bed. Rummaging through all the smut-related accoutrements I brought, I find a green mermaid dildo. Turning up the music louder to block his shower noise, I hop on the bed and go to it.
My face smashes to the pillow so that my glasses dig at my face while I hump a folded blanket. I replay the mornings when he woke me up by rubbing it against my thigh, when I was too sleepy to tell if it was attached or silicone. I roll the dildo between my hands until it warms up, then flip over and hold it against my cunt. As I jerk it, imagining what Adam would do if he caught me makes me wetter than the actual movements.
Everything surges around and I want it inside. I match a green condom to the mermaid’s seaweed skin and encase her shimmering scales in pretty latex. Mushing her around, I smear the wet into my bristling hair and up around my clit to make my cunt open. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the smell of the hotel sheets, the romantic lighthouse paintings, the dirt under my fingernails. I feel desperate and don’t mind a bit.
After flopping around a while, the mermaid flicks her fin against my huge clit like she’s beckoning a sailor from her rock perch. Then she combs out her hair with a piece of coral and flips her fin faster, showing him how she’s so lonely with no one but squid and pelicans for company. When she thinks the sailor might follow her, she dives from the rock and plunges into the salty froth. In her native element, she slips through the heavy water that presses in on her from all sides, like she’s been slicked up with oil. On and on she drives, her thick tail propelling her, with swirling hair following in tendrils.
If I angle the mermaid right, my cunt balloons, making room for her to dive deeper. My breath forces its way out through my nose, noisy from allergies. I leave my clit alone until I’m closer to coming. The mermaid’s as deep as she can go, skimming her stomach along the sand, tickling the anemones and making them squeeze their pink mouths shut.
When I’m ready, and suspecting that Adam will discover me if I wait much longer, I grab my clit with my thumb and index finger like it’s a tiny dick. I pull the hood up as far as it goes, until it stings, and then push the fleshy fold all the way back down. The first few jerks make me forget to keep fucking myself, and it hurts in the best way. My poor, tiny, purple dick, with such low confidence; it still likes being yanked. I tug to feel it lengthening and finally twitching. That sweet, ocean-current heat surges, and I come like a tiny sailboat getting crushed against the rocks.
Adam opens the door to the bathroom. I can see him in the mirror, but he ignores me. He comes out wearing a big, white towel around his waist, and surveys the room.
“Jesus, it smells like sex in here, Tea.”
“So?” I can’t stand the way I sound like a teenager.
“I was going to
apologize for what I said about you being, or not being, a real dyke.”
“Thanks.” I drop my used latex in the toilet. “Is that it? Are you over your fit?”
“I don’t think I’m the one having a fit.” He sits on one of the stuffed chairs. “I think things are freaking you out that you don’t want to talk about.”
“I want to talk about it.” Oh boy, here we go.
“Okay. We went to that benefit event…the one raising money for queer immigration…”
I put my hands on my hips, but drop them when I realize I look like my older sister. “You want a prize for giving money to queers, bucko?”
“That’s not what I mean. Sasha’s friend Kate was hitting on me, so Sasha said, ‘No dice. She’s taken.’ ”
“Sasha’s a new-agey dork. She probably didn’t want to embarrass Kate by telling her she got faked out by a little bit of eyeliner.”
“Well, the way I see it, Sasha and Kate get it.”
“Get what?” Sometimes I like annoying Adam by playing dumb.
“Will you please not… You’re a smart cookie, Tea, so why don’t you just accept it: I’m a dyke.” Adam stares at the fancy lamp on the side table, avoiding my eyes.
“Okay, and is this where I embrace you and tell you that I love you no matter what?” I try a laugh, but it doesn’t come out so good.
“Fuck you, Tea. You’d pop me in the head if I said that. Don’t give me that.”
Adam is right. I can’t bigot my way out of it. I’ve been too loud-mouthed about transphobic lesbians to convince Adam that I qualified as one.
“You’re a dyke.” I try not to say it like, “You’re a toaster oven,” but it comes out a little shaky. I sit on the bed and say it again with conviction, if not celebration. “You’re a dyke.”
I’m not supposed to cry. I’m not supposed to act like Adam just told me of a terminal illness. I’m not supposed to make it all about me. How many times had I repeated that same advice to rooms full of selfish queers? I start crying anyway. Adam moves to the bed to comfort me, even though I don’t deserve it. “Are you shocked?”
“You know I’m not shocked. You love horses and thick-soled boots. You love all my friends. I mean…” I hug Adam really tightly. I wanted to tell Adam that even though it isn’t about me, it is about me—how I like the novelty of being the only dyke in our circle with a boy lover, how I like pushing people’s essentialist buttons.
“So…I’m boring now, huh?” Adam asks.
“I’m not sure.” As crappy as I am at communication, I never lie. Instead I muster, “Adam, I am sincerely proud of you.” I thought Adam might shrug off my warmth as a joke. Instead, Adam stands up with arms held out.
“Will you do the honors?” Adam looks down at the towel hanging at waist level. I carefully loosen the tucked edge without undoing the whole thing and pull it up above her tits, under her arms. Then I tightly fold over the corner of that luxurious hotel towel and smooth it to her hips.
“Will you do the honors?” I offer my tear-streaked cheek to get a good smack upside the head, but instead she gives me a kiss.
GONE
ViolyntFemme
She’s gone. I am sitting here alone, alone in the house, alone in the room, alone inside myself. I can still catch traces of her…a stray scent of perfume, one of her hairs on the floor, a coffee cup with her lipstick seemingly tattooed onto it. Jez? I call; half hoping, half expecting, and all needing an answer. None comes. I curl up on the bed, wrap myself in the scent of her and sleep.
She’s here. I feel her tits against my back, her hot cunt against my ass. She is murmuring how much she has missed me, needed me and thought about me. Her hands come up around my breasts, kneading and pinching. I feel her teeth on my neck and earlobes; I twist my head back and our mouths meet in a clash of lips, teeth, and tongues. One hand snakes down between my thighs, pressing against my clit, rubbing slow circles until I am humping it like some sort of naughty dog with its favorite pillow. Wordless cries escape my mouth as she enters me with her fingers. She rolls me onto my back, her fingers never leaving my cunt. With one hand on my breast, constantly tormenting my nipple, she uses the other one like a piston, fucking me into the bed, adding more of herself until her entire fist is in me. I am coming, bucking, and screaming her name. Jez! Jez!
Jez!! The sound of my own voice wakes me up. My own fingers in my cunt, still moving frantically, my dream orgasm slowly subsiding. I get out of bed, groggy but aware enough to know that I am still alone. I go to the shower, hoping to wash her scent off of me, anger now taking the place of sorrow. Last week we were fine, laughing over breakfast, talking about plans for the weekend, fucking in the shower…
I walk into the bathroom; I can see her washing, her outline slightly distorted by the glass. I snap the buttons on my harness and feel the weight of my cock in my hands. As she turns her back to the door, I silently enter, step behind her, and run my finger down the cleft of her ass. She stifles a moan and presses that luscious ass back against my hand. I tell her she is a naughty little slut while reaching around and testing her cunt. She is already open and waiting for me. I slide into her, inch by inch, pushing her up against the wall. I grab a handful of her hair and fuck her slowly until she starts pushing back, begging for it harder. I oblige, her moans fill the room.
I go on with my day, eating, breathing, moving, and just going through the motions. Twice I see a glimpse of red hair coupled with a heart-shaped ass. I chase after her, scaring the bejesus out of two women who think I am crazy. Maybe I am. Friends come by to check on me, invite me places, joke about “getting me out in the land of the living.” I respond that I would rather walk with the dead. I go to her grave, stroke the outline of her name carved into the stone. Just last week she was lying next to me in bed, six days later, thanks to an out-of-control Impala, I am lying on top of her as she lies in the ground.
I leave the cemetery, tears still coming, and go home. When I get there the rage that had started this morning over what happened finally overtakes me. I tear through the house, ripping pictures off the wall, throwing clothes in trash bags, making inarticulate sounds of grief as I go. I find the bottle of champagne we were saving for our upcoming five-year anniversary and drink it all. I pass out and sleep dreamlessly.
I awake to find the house in shambles, I had forgotten about my tirade the night before. As I walk through the house, surveying the mess, I see something peculiar. In the middle of our bed there is a pile of ripped photos. However, the center one is untouched. It is the picture of us on our wedding day, me in a tasteful suit and her in a gorgeous white slip dress. Lying on the picture is her wedding ring, the ring I could have sworn was on her finger when we—a new wave of hurt washes over me—buried her. I take the ring and slip it over my finger, nestling it next to mine. I try not to wonder why it is there, telling myself that she must not have been wearing it, and during my fugue last night, I created this weird shrine. I spend the rest of my day cleaning up the house, crying over the mementos I so haphazardly destroyed and finding grim joy in the ones that survived.
I wait a few more days before visiting her again. I try and take my friends’ advice and join the land of the living, albeit halfheartedly, for a short time. My well-meaning friends make this harder though, with their well-intentioned condolences and all the talk about her being in a better place. How can I join the living when all anyone wants to talk about is her? I smile, nod my head, and murmur all the things the bereaved spouse is supposed to say.
I find myself back at her grave, the living driving me back toward the comfort of the dead. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain, a sane part of me says that this is fucked up, that this is not the way things should be. I, however, don’t care. I lie there on the ground, knowing that the woman I love is silently moldering beneath me. Knowing the corpse below me bears no resemblance to the cherished body I once held in my arms, with its crushed back and shattered face. At some point I fall asleep, arms around the gravesto
ne.
She is here, only this time I don’t think I am dreaming. I can feel her weight settle on top of me, her lips kiss my face; and I hear her voice in my ears. She is naked, and I suddenly realize that I am too. I roll over, placing myself on top of her, rubbing my thigh into her cunt. The warmth from it is shocking compared to the coolness of the rest of her.
Where have you been? I ask. Why did you leave me? She places her finger against my lips, hushing me. I realize I don’t care; all that matters is that she is here, under me, holding me in her arms. We kiss frantically; my hands explore her like it’s our first time all over again. She moans as I suck on her breasts, pulling her stiff nipples into my mouth. My hand replaces my thigh as I place it over her cunt. I always loved the feeling of it in my hand, the smooth skin, the heat and wetness leaking out. I reach down further, one finger gently tickling her ass, while she bucks against me trying to get something inside her. I’m beginning to lower my head to her cunt when she stops me. She twirls her finger in the air, motioning for me to turn around so she can get to me while I eat her. I happily comply, settling my cunt over her mouth. I reenter her with my hand, two fingers in her ass, while my thumb nestles in her cunt. I suddenly feel her do the same to me. Feeling her fuck me the same way I am fucking her sends me over the edge. I bury my face in her cunt, licking her clit, daring her to make me come before she does. We become one being straining at each other, melding together until our cunts begin to twitch at the same time. My orgasm hits me like a truck, lights swirling before my eyes, the brightness overtaking me, her answering wetness flowing over my face. All I see is white…
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