Wanting that Man
Karen Taylor
From almost the first moment I spotted him, I wanted to suck his dick. I know, not appropriate behaviour from a lesbian. But then, he wasn’t an ordinary man, either. I knew that when I saw him that first time at the dyke bar, surrounded by women. And what women! I mean, I go to the dyke bar for company and to get laid, but a lot of these other women go there to get away from men. Years of anarchist politics, progressive city governments, and low-cost lands made the I-5 corridor a haven for lesbian separatists in the 70s and 80s. Although not many of the wimmin I hung with had been part of those early years, Seattle’s lesbian social system was still influenced by decades of separatist politics. While I didn’t mind men, most of the women in here would be steering away from anything with a whiff of testosterone. But there he was, surrounded by babes, laughing and drinking a beer just as naturally as if, well, as if he wasn’t the only man in a dyke bar.
I watched him carefully. He was handsome, in a boyish way. Lanky body, dark curled hair cut short in the back and on the sides, a moustache resting gently across his upper lip. The contrast between the dark hair and the flash of his white teeth when he smiled or laughed was a delight. His hands were delicate, with long fingers that caressed his beer when it was resting on the bar counter. He didn’t preen, the way I see straight men preen when they’re surrounded by women. His crotch didn’t thrust out aggressively, the way gay men sometimes do when they’re in unfamiliar territory. His hip remained cocked against the bar, one boot kicked on the railing. I watched, long enough to enjoy the lazy shift of his weight from one side to the other, turning away from me, giving me a lovely view of a tight, hard ass. One of the women spanked it jokingly, and he laughed, twitching his butt back and forth a few times in rhythm to the music.
I think that’s what did it. The flirtatious move of that ass had me transfixed. I wanted to spank him, too! I wanted to touch that ass, caress it, and move my hand slowly around to the front . . . and realized, in a flush of embarrassment, that I was in the midst of daydreaming about sucking a man’s cock while I was standing in the middle of a lesbian bar.
Well, I’ve never been afraid of my psyche. I decided I had to know this guy – and soon, whispered my hungry cunt. So I asked one of my friends, when she stepped away from the group.
“I knew him back in San Francisco, when he was still a butch dyke,” she said, and I had a sudden sense of dizziness.
“You’re telling me –” I started, and she laughed.
“Yeah, that’s right, he used to be a she,” my friend explained. I turned again and stared openly at the man at the end of the bar. Was he lanky, or slender? That smile pleasant, or sweet? Something about the face seemed feminine. Or was it? The body language was definitely male. Or was it? Lucky for me, I’m not shy. I introduced myself when it was convenient. I bought him a beer.
“I’m Kate.”
“I’m Larry,” he answered, smiling. I wondered what his name used to be. But when I shook his hand, I stopped wondering. His palm was smooth, his hands strong. Those fingers . . . I was sure those fingers would feel wonderful in my cunt. And with sex so strongly on my mind, I dropped my eyes briefly to his crotch.
Bad move. Because when I looked back into his smiling, inquisitive eyes, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years about any guy. I wanted him. I wanted to take him home and fuck him. I wanted to suck his dick, feel him come in my mouth. I wanted that man.
You have to understand. I haven’t wanted a man, not for years. When I get the urge for penetration, I use dildos or fists, just like any other healthy, horny dyke. I had separated my desire for getting my cunt filled from my desire for a penis. But Larry’s presence made me remember the joys of cock-sucking. Remember the way a living dick pulses in a wet, hungry mouth. The hot, sucking sounds as my lips would tighten or loosen around a cock shaft, tugging on the head while my tongue would tickle a wet piss-hole. And especially remembering the tension in the flesh just before my mouth would fill with hot, salty come. I wanted that again. And the urge was so strong I could barely keep up my end of the conversation.
Lucky for me I can sometimes keep my cunt and my brain separated – or at least act like it.
“It’s strange to see a guy so comfortable in a dyke bar, Larry,” I said. “Most of these wimmin would rather spit at a man than invite him in. You’ve got balls walking in here.” I winced internally. Maybe I should have used a better term. But Larry just smiled back, ignoring my possible faux pas.
“I’ve got a lot of friends here,” he said. “Some of whom have known me for a long time – back when I was still living in California. I’m up visiting for a few weeks.”
“Good,” I said recklessly. “I mean, good that you’ll be here for a while.”
“Is it?” he asked, still smiling. I noticed this close that his eyes were green, with gold flecks dancing in the irises.
“Yup,” I answered. “Because, Larry, my new friend, I think you’re very attractive.” Larry chuckled, pretending great shock.
“How un-lesbian of you!” he said in mock horror. “Attraction to a man! Unless,” he said, “you’re thinking I’m not really a man.” I saw that under his joking demeanour there was something else.
“Look,” I said, “Seattle’s grapevine is notorious the country over for its speed and viciousness. I got word about you within two minutes of walking into this bar.”
He nodded, his eyes clouded. “Yeah, well, despite rumours to the contrary, I’m not the butchest dyke youll ever meet, Kate. I’ve spent a lot of time and money to be something – someone – else.
The silence between us was growing, and I didn’t want it to. But it was clear that this was not the place to continue.
“Larry,” I finally said. “I didn’t think you were a butch dyke. I still don’t. And I would really like to see you. Would you be interested in having dinner with me tomorrow night?” He was surprised, but pleased. I gave him my address and phone number, he gave me his. By the time we parted, the clouds had left his eyes, and he was smiling again. And my level of horniness was back on the rise. Our date was at 7. Less than 20 hours away. Already I couldn’t wait. I nearly rushed over to a group of friends to announce, “I’ve got a hot date with Larry tomorrow.” But suddenly, I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want them to treat my date with Larry like it was just another trek into Kate’s adventures with the odd and unusual. My date with Larry wasn’t just another unconventional experience, another feather in my proverbial cap. Was it?
Yeah, well, maybe it was. After all, I was the one who giggled with the drag queens and flirted the most outrageously with the butchest diesel dykes in the city. Those gender edges always attracted me. But this was more complicated. After all, Larry was a man in a dyke bar. There just isn’t a place in our world for people like him. On the other hand, no amount of drugs or surgery could change the fact that he had been part of the dyke culture for several years before making this decision. I wonder how it felt, to make a decision that would always keep you on the fringe of an already fringe community. I wonder if he ever talked about it with anyone.
I lay awake that night thinking about Larry. Whether the skin on his face was rougher than mine. Whether his nipples were responsive to a light touch, or to a quick, sharp twist. Whether he clenched his toes when he came. And especially, whether he liked his cock sucked. I wondered if he had a cock. Or if he used anything in its place. I fell asleep dreaming of those freshly masculine hands caressing my body, that low voice murmuring in my ear. Spreading my legs. Larry fucking me slow.
The next day he came to my place right at 7, and I was waiting for him. I wanted to be as femme as I could be against his masculinity, so I wore a light summer rayon dress with a floral pattern, sheer stockings and a lace garter belt that matched my bra and panties. Larry was handsome in his creased slacks, crisp white cotton shirt, bright tie. We went out for Mexican, drinking margaritas and eating spicy food. I waited until we wer
e near the end of the meal before I told him about my dreams the night before.
He smiled, but there was something else with it.
“You flatter me,” he answered, his dark eyes bright and smiling at me. I smiled back, but pressed on in my usual, subtle-as-a-tractor way.
“This isn’t about flattery, Larry. This is about attraction. I’m attracted to you. I noticed you as soon as I walked into the bar last night. OK, OK,” I said, laughing as he grinned. “It wasn’t hard to notice the only man in the place. But what I mean is, I saw you and I thought you were hot! Who knows why? Because I’m attracted to ‘female’ energy in men and ‘male’ energy in women? Or is it simply because you have a cute ass?” By this time Larry was laughing with me. I grabbed his hand (oh! getting fisted by a man! My cunt clenched so hard I almost lost my train of thought), took a deep breath, and continued.
“Larry, you are so fine, I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know all the reasons why, either, but I do know you’re the first man thats interested me in years. The more important question for the moment is whether you want me. He stared at me, a good long time. I refused to drop my eyes, challenging him back. When he smiled, I knew I had him. I was floating on air all the way back to my apartment.
I waited until we were inside before I kissed him. I had a feeling that his moustache would make my knees weak, and it did. I nibbled at it, testing the sensation against my tongue and lips, hoping Larry would taste my hunger for him. I let him undress me, wanting to feel his hands on my body, and I unbuttoned his shirt. He hesitated as I touched his collarbone, then sank back on the bed with me. I traced the scars that followed the line of his muscles on his chest, memories of his old life. When I asked, he told me the feeling in his nipples was duller, and then he rolled my nipples in his fingers lightly. I moaned as they grew under his touch. Larry licked and sucked them into hardness, my back arching as I clawed at his hair, pulling his face into my breasts. I begged him to fuck me and he answered, “Not yet,” his mouth working its way down my belly. I shivered when his tongue opened me, flicking against my clit, then howled as he nibbled and worried the sweet inner flesh. His delicate fingers pushed gently into my cunt, then curved, rubbing the back of my clit. I felt the wave carry me into an orgasm, his mouth staying on me, fingers buried deep inside as I bucked and jerked. I discovered my fingers tangled in his hair when I finally stopped shaking.
Larry pulled himself up next to me, caressing my belly, my breasts, my collarbone, and I let my body respond wholly to his touch. I felt my arousal grow again, and I rested my hand against his crotch, feeling his bulge through the fabric of his slacks. I rolled against him, unbuckled his belt. His hand stopped me.
“I want to suck you,” I said. He shook his head.
“It’s not – they haven’t perfected the surgery for a good penis, yet,” he said.
“I don’t care,” I answered. “I only care whether you’ll get off if I suck your cock. Will you? Can you get off like that?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. I sat up, surprised.
“Hasn’t anyone ever sucked your cock before?” I asked.
“No. Not since the change.”
“I’m willing to try if you are,” I said, grinning at him. He hesitated, giving me time to open his fly and breathe lightly on the bush of hair I discovered hidden beneath. He moaned, and sighed. To me, it sounded like, “All right, I give up.”
So I pressed ahead, letting my fingers do the talking. There was a dildo, half-soft, resting in the bush of hair. Carefully I rested my hand over it. I wrapped my fingers around it through his pants, and squeezed gently, bearing down at the same time so he could feel the pressure against his crotch. His eyes closed and he let out a long sigh. I continued to rock my fist against his package until I could see all the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax. Then I made my next move.
I kissed his neck, gently, brushing my lips against his skin. “Larry, I’ll suck this, I’ve sucked plenty of dyke dicks, but I’d really like to taste you, if you’ll let me,” I whispered, letting my breath tickle his ear. There was a slight tightening in his shoulders, but Larry didn’t open his eyes. I kept my hand rocking against his groin as I increased the intensity of my kisses. He moaned a little, and I took his earlobe into my mouth, tugging on it gently with my teeth. That seemed to do it. Larry groaned and arched up against the bed, tugging his slacks off, and removing his packing dick. His eyes were still closed. Was he scared?
Of course he was, I admonished myself. If no one has sucked this man’s cock before, he’s probably nervous as hell. And while I wasn’t exactly subtle about what I wanted – did I really know what I was getting into?
Without rushing too much, I started to move down his body, leaving a trail of hot kisses from Larry’s neck across his chest (with some time focused on his nipples to get an idea of what he liked there), and down his stomach to his thick bush of hair.
He smelled different than I remembered men smelling. But at the same time, he didn’t smell like a woman. There was a tang that was definitely not female. I used my hand to part the hair, and immediately discovered his dick, pushing up from between the two folds of skin. I pulled the lips slightly away from his cock, freeing it.
What can I say? It was a lot like a big clit, but not really. More fully developed, thick as my thumb, and there was even a head. My own clit was pretty small, and I’d never looked at it that closely, so I don’t know whether Larry’s cock was just a bigger version of what his clit had looked like. And frankly, I don’t care. Because it looked like a great cock to me. A dream cock. The kind of cock I could suck and tug and tickle and never have to worry about whether he would choke me.
I breathed on it first, warming the skin. Larry shivered, and one hand opened and closed. I flicked my tongue quickly across the tip of his cock, and as he moaned, I covered his cock with my mouth.
Oh, the ride that followed! When I closed my lips and began to suck the length of Larry’s cock, it was like all of his fears melted away. I felt a hand drop heavily onto the back of my head, and when I looked up, I could see him playing with his nipples with his other hand. I found that a little nibbling around the base drove him to thrust hard into my mouth. When I tugged hard at the root, he arched his back, and I got my hands under him, cupping his ass and spreading his ass cheeks slightly. The hand on my head gripped my hair as I tongued the length of his shaft, and tickled the head of his cock. He was pulling and twisting his nipples, which sent hot rushes to my cunt and made me suck harder.
We finally got into a rhythm that I knew would lead to his orgasm, and I let him take the lead, his hand tugging and pushing at my head. Cupping his ass cheeks, I pulled him toward me in the same rhythm, deepening his thrusts into my mouth. His moans had changed into animal grunts, and I could feel Larry’s cock flexing, the way cocks do just before they come.
And indeed, he did come, shooting a hot, bitter fluid into my mouth that definitely wasn’t semen, but tasted too tangy to be women’s juices. It didn’t fill my mouth to bursting, which I appreciated – I hate coughing out come as the ending to a good sex scene – and I savoured its unique texture and flavour. I resisted the temptation to start sucking again, and instead disentangled myself so I could slide back up Larry’s body and rest my head on his chest, listening for his heartbeat to slow down.
Larry finally sighed heavily, putting one arm around me. “Kate, that was – I mean, I never thought –”
“I’m giving you fair warning,” I told him. “I’m lousy at making breakfast, but I grind fresh coffee every morning if I get fucked first.
He laughed. “Lucky for you I’d do anything for a good cup of coffee,” he replied, and then kissed me, long and slow, the kind of kiss you know you’re going to want every night and every morning right after you fuck your brains out. Yes, indeed, I wanted that man.
La Déesse Terre
Madeleine Oh
Why on earth was she doing this?
Other wo
men, when their husbands walked out on them, got drunk with their best friends or gorged on Swiss chocolate until they saw double. Dea Sullivant ran away from the US and fled to France.
It seemed a good idea at the time but, as she peered though the twilight and the driving rain, Dea began to realise why they offered cheap flights in March. Her decision to leave the autoroute because of blinding rain had been a mistake. As the country road stretched through the night, the dark seemed filled with echoes of Rob muttering about her uselessness, her stupidity, her abysmal map-reading skills, and her general inadequacy.
“Fuck you, Rob Sullivant!” she yelled. “Your idea of a big trip is driving to Blackburgh for a ball game. I’m in Europe!” And lost. But what the hell. No one here knew she’d been declared obsolete, and replaced by a skinny speech therapist with acrylic fingernails.
No one cared. She wouldn’t either.
The road forked. Dea took the wider one into a deserted village square. A few chinks of light showed from shuttered windows, but the only other sign of life was a stray dog lurking by the darkened church. So much for her dream of a charming country inn with soft beds, quaint rooms and fabulous food.
As the windshield wipers dragged back and forth, the prospect of a soft bed grew from want to lust. Dea turned down a narrow lane between shuttered houses and a row of darkened shops. Surely, somewhere – yes! There was an inn, on the right, beyond the last cottage. Dea turned into the parking lot and almost crashed her rental car into an immense standing stone. After swerving around it, she parked and killed the engine. The rain had eased to a steady and miserable drizzle but the lights of the inn spread a welcoming warmth. On her way to the front door, Dea paused by the menhir. There was just enough light from the inn to see it was a rudely carved, female stone figure. She looked ancient and weather-worn, much the way Dea felt, but Dea had the advantage of not having to sit out in the rain. Hefting her bag on her shoulder, Dea glanced at the painted sign over the door and entered La Déesse Terre.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 3 Page 32
