Sometimes She Lets Me

by Tristan Taormino

  She wanted me for something. And I was pretty sure I knew the extent of her motives.

  Jamie made the flimsy excuse of ordering a drink from the bar for a friend to come and speak to me again. At the end of the night, when the bar was almost empty, she came up to pay the tab. I told her it wasn’t a tab, it was one drink; she insisted.

  She paid with a twenty pound note, which was completely over the limit of what she needed to cover. She was gone before I could give her any change. But she’d written her room number on a hotel serviette. It lay open on the counter, daring me.

  Maybe Annie’d been wrong. Maybe Jamie was alone. And it’s true—I can be morally inept if I choose to be.

  So, soon enough, there I was, standing in front of room 27. I lifted my hand and knocked, short and sharp, twice. I waited. Tried to listen for any kind of distinctive sound, but there was none.

  The door opened and Jamie stood inside, looking me over. “Hi,” I said nonchalantly.

  “Nice to see you…”

  “Kyle.”

  “Come in.” She closed the door. I was infinitely aware of her presence behind me. I’ll admit, I expected her to touch me, but she didn’t.

  The room was a moderate temperature; comfortable and relaxed. I noticed the big king-sized bed in the far corner had been turned down. With relief I realized there wasn’t any music playing in the background.

  “Would you like a drink?” Jamie’s accent was more prevalent now. Her voice was laced with thick arousal. I heard her move behind me, then she stepped past and headed for the minibar.

  “Actually—” I stopped when I saw the other woman step out of the bathroom. She was wearing jeans, heavy black boots and a wifebeater that accentuated her small breasts and flat stomach.

  “Hi,” she said in a gravelly voice, and smiled. “I’m Nicole.”

  As if by some form of sexual voodoo, the atmosphere suddenly crisped white-hot with eroticism. I looked over to where Jamie had started undressing by the edge of the bed. She was slowly undoing the buttons of her cotton shirt. I noticed with no small amount of satisfaction that the freckles repeated themselves between the cleft of her breasts. She was wearing a white bra and panties.

  Jamie said, “Kiss her,” and for a moment I wasn’t sure who she’d said it to, or even if I’d heard her correctly. Then I felt Nicole step up behind me, her masculine presence heavy, and for a moment my body tensed.

  I’d never fucked another butch. Maybe because of that, the coil of lust that started in my belly and slithered due south made me groan when I felt her hands, solid and firm from behind, on my hips.

  I turned around and looked at her, knowing that Jamie, already naked, was looking at us. Nicole had a silver ring through the right of her bottom lip, and her left eyebrow had been pierced several times. Black, oily tattoos crept out from beneath her vest and veined down her muscular arms. Dangerous, distracting silver decorated all but the thumbs of her two hands.

  I placed my hands on Nicole’s forearms and felt the coiled tension there. I pulled her closer, just like that, and kissed her, tasting the tang of metallic as the silver ring slid against my tongue.

  No matter how tough and rugged she might have looked, Nicole kissed like a woman. Don’t get me wrong; she was as hungry as I was. Her tongue stroked mine slowly, probing keenly in a most exquisite way. The air in her mouth was hot. I felt her fingers waver near the waist of my black pants.

  She pulled back, both of us breathing hard. All in all, the kiss had been a little demanding, but nothing too violent. As I looked into Nicole’s gray-blue eyes I knew that it wouldn’t be the two of us ending up in bed together. That wasn’t the plan.

  She stepped back from me then. We both looked at Jamie, who was lying on the bed, naked, looking back at us. No one said a word. I was ready to fuck her if they asked me.

  Nicole tapped a cigarette from an open box on the table and lit it. She drew in deep and expelled a column of smoke. “Don’t get undressed,” she said to me and pointed at a chair next to the side of the bed. “That’s your place. Don’t forget it.” She winked at me. Some sublime form of butch code passed between us.

  As I sat down, one leg resting in a T across my knee, Nicole pulled her vest off and tossed it into a corner. Both Jamie and I watched as she unbuttoned the heavy buttons on her black cargos, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. The sound of the metallic buttons popping was followed by someone exhaling loudly—me, I realized. For an instant I felt as if it was me standing there. I realized my hands were grasping the chair. It took everything I had not to stand up and walk over to the bed.

  Nicole stepped closer and held her half-smoked cigarette out to me. I took it, grateful for something to put in my mouth, and watched her strut over to the bed. I glimpsed a broad, black studded belt above the waistline of her pants. That’s a goodlooking piece of leather. Her crotch bulged fetchingly as she climbed onto the bed and crawled over Jamie like a snake. The bed creaked prettily.

  Nicole and Jamie kissed, hard, and when I saw Nicole’s tongue—which had moments before been in my own mouth—slip past her lover’s lips a small sound of satisfaction escaped from Jamie’s throat.

  My senses began their slow but certain dip into overload. My groin was on fire. I heard the smooth shhhk as one of Jamie’s legs moved against Nicole’s clothed thigh and her heel hooked around the inside of Nicole’s knee.

  They were making the stimulated sounds of lovers flushed with arousal, and there I was, not four feet away, watching them. Nicole moved her mouth down. When her tongue flicked lewdly before taking Jamie’s erect nipple into her mouth, I heard a moan. Involuntarily, I followed with one of my own, short and tight.

  Nicole’s hand moved down between her legs, and disappeared inside her cargos. When she brought it back out she held at least eight inches of dyke cock in her hand. I grunted at the sight of it; not because I wanted it in me, but because I wished I was Nicole.

  Nicole turned her head and looked at me, smiling as Jamie reached down to take the cock in her hand. I was having a hard time taking my eyes off Jamie’s hips as they rose eagerly from the mattress. Nicole put one of her big, decorated hands on Jamie’s hip and held her down, making the muscles beneath the skin of her taut belly move.

  “Fuck her,” I snarled, quite unrepentantly, only then realizing how my jaw muscles were clenching. Nicole leaned forward and in one admirably executed move thrust herself into Jamie with a harsh grunt.

  I sat and watched, rapt.

  At first Nicole was nice and easy. She allowed Jamie to move up to meet her as she kept a fixed tempo. Every so often Jamie would make encouraging sounds, or those of pleasure when Nicole’s cock hit the right spot. I watched the tattoos on the butch girl’s back as they moved and undulated to the syncopated rhythm of that one weak spot in the mattress. At one point they both looked over to where I was sitting, their movements never faltering, their attention fixed on me. I felt my hand move down to my crotch.

  Nicole began to fuck Jamie harder then, no doubt partly due to the fact that I seemed to have found my tongue and was egging her on. She was strong and held Jamie down, fucking her into the mattress while I implored her with rude remarks; ones I realized I’d wanted to say ever since Jamie had the balls to call me “lassie.” I wanted to screw Jamie myself…but I knew the magic would end, the spell would be broken if I dared move from that chair an inch. All I could do was grind my teeth and cross my legs while watching the two of them on the bed.

  When they were done, Jamie and Nicole fell against one another, kissing like longtime lovers. I wondered at that. Nicole couldn’t have been older than myself. Maybe even younger. The idea that they had been in a relationship for some time was perversely thrilling.

  I got up weakly to leave when Nicole went into the bathroom. The sound of a tap being opened brought reality back in full swing. Jamie, naked, stopped me when I was halfway to the door. “Thanks for coming,” she said and laughed, realizing her pun. She
patted and squeezed my ass before disappearing inside the bathroom just as Nicole came out. She walked me to the door.

  I reached out to turn the knob but Nicole stopped me. Grabbing my wrist, she shoved my hand inside her cargos. Her clit was hard. I knew what she wanted.

  I stroked her, stiff and rough. It was strange but thrilling to hear the low obscenities of another butch in my ear. My coccyx tingled with newfound lust.

  It didn’t take long for her to come. I didn’t know whether Jamie was aware of what we were doing. Nicole pushed me against the door, grinding her hips against mine, and came with a cry of release still stuck inside her throat. I fumbled for the doorknob and fell out into the hallway. The door banged shut loudly behind me. For a moment I just stood there, flushed and getting my bearings back. When I checked my watch I saw that it was almost two in the morning. Too late to catch the Tube. Too late for a bus. Dammit. I should have asked for cab money.

  LOOK BUT DON’T TOUCH

  Sparky

  You look down and see the bottle of whiskey lying in casual spills of come.

  You envy the boys for those quick joyous fountains.

  It will take you much longer.

  The walls are shiny from others before you: a glaze of sperm, sweat, other shoulders in leather jackets, and the strangely mouthwatering smell of cleaning solution.

  Your shoulders are narrow. You fit neatly into this dark box.

  There is no great mystery, you think, sliding a dollar into the glowing slot. Surrounded by darkness, you think of your mom, comforting you in the locker room: “We’re all girls here.”

  But you smell like cool water for men and pomade, and you wear your most dapper boy clothes, black leather jacket and boots. Your hair is freshly cropped and no one can tell the tinge of lip liner. Your hair is carefully in its borrowed tranny boy flip. You are prepared for a mystery date. Who is behind the glass? That is the mystery.

  A bar of light widens. The black window rises.

  Five women in red-gold light are surrounded by mirrors. Dancing naked with their own lush bodies, with the mirrors reflecting silver and red flashes, girls upon girls, like the room is packed. One comes over to see you, dances before you. She has small, rounded breasts, rounded hips, catlike black-rimmed eyes, and a ready, naughty smile, stands on tall vinyl stiletto boots. A black bob, a mini-version of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.

  Your face becomes hot. Your ears burn. Your expression is awe and wonderment. She grins down at you, pleased. Seductive. She shows you her breasts; their skin looks impossibly smooth and clean, with golden-rimmed, small nipples. You see the hollow of her throat, her collarbone, her little belly.

  She is the loveliest being on the planet.

  She is naked before you and you can do nothing but look and look.

  You keep looking at her hips, peek at her pussy, and give long lustful looks to her boots.

  “I bet that smile gets them every time,” she purrs.

  You realize you are grinning like a fool. You shake your head no but cannot stop the grin that is shy, nervous, awed.

  She calls the others over. “Look how cute! Look at those dimples!”

  Now you could not stop smiling if you tried.

  Four of them peep in the window at you, pressing against it. They pretend to poke your dimples. “So cute!” Real smiles from them. You want to duck and you are blushing so hard but there’s nowhere to go, the window’s open, and your money is in there ticking away relentlessly.

  They move to other open windows and you are left with little Uma Thurman. “I like your boots,” you say.

  You hear the click as she rests one high heel on the window ledge and bends over so you look up the spike heel and vinyl boot to her incredible round ass. She peeks at you from above her delicate pussy lips and asshole, smiling because, you think to yourself, now she knows. She knows how to get you. You feel tormented with need to be licking those boots.

  She turns to face herself in the mirror and lowers herself below your window. She writhes back and forth. You realize with delight that she is fucking your imaginary cock. She’s smiling sweet and wicked, as if she knows exactly how hard this gets your clit.

  The black square of window lowers. She bends down to grin underneath, waving. You see the shiny toe of her boot, and are left in darkness.

  You feel wired and keyed up, you’ve been here a long time and are likely to stay longer, not willing to jerk off like the others. You told yourself to come here for the experience but you will get yourself turned on until you want to climb the booths, kiss and claw at the glass, so near to those girls. Wanting to please them all.

  The next booth smells salty and familiar. You realize it’s freshly pumped semen that glitters on the floor. You feel a sense of solidarity. You put twenty into the slot. You are in for the full ride.

  The window rises. You lock eyes with a new dancer, across the carpeted, mirrored stage. This one has a cute black bob with little ponytails and bangs. She has little Cupid’s-bow pouty lips and huge dark eyes with long lashes. She wears white thigh-high fishnets with bits of lace at the top and high-heeled sandals.

  But most of all she has a body that is so lush and curvy, it looks familiar. It could be your own. She has a rounded tummy and her hips and thighs are buttery and luscious. With her black hair and sexy tummy, she reminds you of your first girlfriend. She is innocent and powerfully sexual. It is like the glass is gone.

  She looks unimaginably soft and delicious. You want to roll around on top of her and feel her up, lick up and down her luxurious hips and belly.

  She comes up and licks her lips, pouting and sexy, thrusting her heavy breasts, writhing her hips against the window. Her lips are trembling. You realize it’s an effort for her to keep from cracking up. Soon she cannot stop smiling. Her eyes are halflidded. She is everything lush and full, and you want to take her around the waist and wrap her legs around you. But she’s behind the glass.

  You ponder what to say. Poetry? Blank verse? “You are so cute,” you say at last.

  She smiles for real, her eyes lingering on you. “So are you!”

  Her name is Persephone and that is not, she informs you, her real hair. She leans over to pull the wig a little. Her hair is blonde and cropped short, recently shaved.

  The window closes and opens again, slowly revealing her white fishnets and finally the lace trim and her ass. She’s talking to the other dancers. It’s late now, and the catlike Uma Thurman dancer from earlier is stretched out against one wall, naked except for her boots, a lazy smile on her face. You are one of two people still watching. The dancers lounge around naked and hot under the lights, beautiful and untouched. It looks humid. You want to fan them with palm leaves. Suck on ice cubes and breathe mist into their lips. Wear your own outfit of gold sandals, and be their altar boy or temple acolyte….

  Persephone does a silly dance, climbs up the pole, and twists her way back down, does handstands for you. She comes back to your window and her eyes focus on you, serious, thinking. She undulates and smiles, showing you her ass, her tits, her shoes, her pussy, right at eye level. You cannot look away, you are enchanted. She is pink and luscious, sparkling, red-gold from the lights. She licks and bites her own nipple and you finally feel your clit so warm and hard the feeling has spread throughout your lower body, the urgency of this is unfuckingbearable. You feel overwhelmed. You do not know what to do. How do guys deal with this? You look at the pools of semen with new understanding, but you’re not about to do that here. Instead you feel wild, panicked, worshipful, at a standstill, spending more and more to keep seeing the girls deliciously naked and close enough to touch but you can’t, and your breath is steaming up this little stinky booth.

  The window lowers. The darkness is comforting after such staring at the light.

  You walk outside into the San Francisco night. You turn and the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge stretch across the bay. They are shimmering in the fog. You think of the shimmering girls in their mirror
ed fishbowl dancing late into the night. The bridge and the girls: glittering, remote, and comforting all at once.

  FEE FIE FOE FEMME

  Elaine Miller

  All night long she wouldn’t let me kiss her because—she said—our lipstick colors clashed.

  Checking the address she’d written on a piece of paper, I’d picked her up at her house earlier. Rosalie, the paper said, then her phone number and address. No last name. Dykes don’t need last names when we have attributes and ex-lovers to be known by. As a dyke I’m Jez the Goth, or Sharen’s-ex Jez, never Jessie Tate. And Rosalie…could be New-in-Town Rosalie, or Rosalie the Beautiful. Maybe if I was into U-Haul rental she could be Jez’s Rosalie by the second date.

  My heart skipped a beat as she’d appeared in the doorway dressed like an old-time movie starlet, her loose curls bouncing around her sparkling brown eyes. She’d taken my hand, and I’d leaned in for a kiss, which she dodged, laughing impishly. And explained. I was annoyed that she was right about the lipstick clashing. I was wearing my usual vampiric matte blood-red, and hers was something a worker bee would die trying to collect for her queen. Raspberry pink, glittery under the new-car deep gloss, her lips were startling and perfect jewels against her brown skin.

  I took Rosalie the Beautiful to LICK, the only full-time lezzie bar in town. Once there and seated at a table beside the dance floor, we lost no time in flirting. She pretended to lose one of her gold earrings in my cleavage, necessitating that she trail her fingers around my breasts, trolling for it, while I protested that she had to find it, quick, because I wear only silver with black clothing. And of course, I only wear black clothing.

  But she still wouldn’t kiss me. She would dance so close to me that the lines of her face blurred in our body heat, oh yes. She would let the slick material of her skirt smooth the way as she rode my thigh to the beat of the house music. Later in the evening, she’d let me hold her tight in the dark corners of the bar, one hand cupping her full breast, my thumb strumming across her nipple as she squirmed, my other hand tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck. But every time I tried to kiss her, throughout the evening, she just laughed and twirled away, leaving a cloud of girl-scent, a flare of her skirt, and the teasing word Lipstick.