Best of Best Women's Erotica

by Marcy Sheiner

  I didn’t ask the obvious: what about Mark? I was sure she’d break it to him gently. If she chose to break it to him at all. Perhaps she intended to cheat on me with him. As she’d cheated on him with me. Which was it? Perhaps she didn’t know what would happen next. I certainly didn’t. If the new “me” she’d discovered was capable of this, wasn’t it capable of anything?

  That picture of Stephen leered down at us. The one with the look, the smug look, the I-want-you-and-you’re-mine look. I’d wipe that look right off his face.

  “Promise me one thing,” I said.

  “Anything.”

  “Promise you’ll put up a picture of me, a picture of us, right here.” I took the leering picture down and put it under the bed. “So I can watch you sleep.”

  “Whatever you want,” she whispered into the small of my neck.

  That answered all the questions I might have about Mark. If he ever came into this bedroom again, he’d see what I wanted him to see. That I’d been here. That he didn’t know her or me at all. That women are not numbers that lie flat in your address book just waiting for you to call. And what could he say to that? To her? To my triumphant picture?

  Love is a fickle religion. The next time I came to her house— if I ever came again—I might find my own face and skin and hers, wet with my kisses, lit like a candle in every corner. Or she might promise me anything and then do as she liked. My picture might come out of the closet like some aunt’s tacky, unwelcome gift that you put on display whenever you expect her visit. Anything was possible. Hadn’t I just proven that? Her devotion was so believable. But believable is not the same as truthful, is it? What if Jennifer wasn’t so simple, so easy? What if she’d played us both, Stephen and me? What if she believed my lies (and his!) the way that Stephen thought I believed his lies? Yes, I laughed, and what if I really was Cleopatra?

  Liars believe that everyone’s lying. After a really big lie, no truth seems possible. Was I lying when I said I loved her? I whispered it again into her soft neck. If a good lie sounds like the truth, then what does the truth sound like?

  I let myself out while she was sleeping. The lingerie sat untouched in the Victoria’s Secret bag. I pulled out the leering picture of Mark from under the bed and put it into the bag. I took it with me. I called a taxi from the corner. The taxi took me to the mall, where I’d left my car. From there, I drove to “Philadelphia.” You remember Philadelphia, that’s where Mark lives. Fortunately it was only ten minutes away.

  Mark…no, Stephen…was waiting up for me.

  “Where have you been?”

  Oh, what a tightrope is jealousy! Why had I never thought to make him follow me, watch me, wonder where I was when he wasn’t around?

  “Where have you been?” he demanded, louder.

  “Shopping,” I said, although the mall had been closed for hours. I hefted the Victoria’s Secret bag for effect. Then I showed him that bit of lace Jennifer had thought was too daring. That little bit of covering that was more naked than being naked. And I dared and dared. I turned on the radio. I tuned it to the same station Jennifer listened to. I danced for him. I didn’t show the same energy and enthusiasm as I had a few hours before. I was tired. And he was my husband, not a conquered general or a biblical prophet or an intoxicating, nubile, redheaded, new woman-lover. He was just my husband. He was a sure thing. My sure thing. And I was his sure thing. (Though not, perhaps, as sure as he’d thought.) It isn’t so bad being or having a sure thing. I knew which wiggle and oomph would get a sigh or a smile. I could predict his expressions before they found their way from his brain to his face. And that was a good thing. I liked his expressions. I especially liked the one he wore now, a heat burning in his eyes as he pulled the lace off me—a little too roughly. It was the same hunger and satisfaction, the same look as in the picture.

  We made love. It was Stephen’s turn to taste the other woman on me. Did he know what he was tasting? As I was coming, I thought about calling out “Mark,” but why spoil a nice moment? The idea was so funny to me that what came out of my mouth was oh-laugh-oh-laugh-ohmygod.

  While he was brushing his teeth—what a familiar sound—I put the lacy thing in my underwear drawer. I put that damn picture in there as well. What should I do with it? Hang it over our bed? Or in his office, replacing that irritating cowboy print?

  Stephen looked up at me from the underwear drawer, grinning lewdly. I buried him in bras and panties. For now, he was fine where he was until I thought of someplace better.

  DANKE SCHOEN

  Helena Settimana

  VEGAS. ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE DEGREES. THE ice-maker sweated, so did the Coke machine. I had gotten on a Greyhound in Buffalo, aiming for Hollywood, but was persuaded by chance to stop short. During most of the journey I had been poked and prodded by a randy shoe salesman from Tonawanda; I wasn’t that desperate. He was going on to L.A.; I quickly decided I wasn’t, thank god. I stepped off the bus, stiff and worn and relieved, into the hazy glare. One suitcase, a one-way ticket and two hundred bucks left to my name.

  Found a motel with a stuttering neon sign, _otel Vac_nc_, blue, white, and faded red, like an old billboard painted on the side of a factory. Called, apropos of nothing, the Ocean View. A used car dealership on one side, with its vinyl pennant flags fluttering in the dusty breeze like harlequin sharks’ teeth. Strip club two doors down on the other side. Weedy, empty lot across the street.

  The charms of the Ocean View: crumbling stucco, rust stains in the sink, air-conditioning that didn’t work ’cause the wires were all pulled out. Twenty-year-old TV with rabbit ears. Mildew in the bath. A musty, creaking bed that sagged in the middle. Twenty bucks a night. One hundred and five degrees at two in the afternoon, in the shade of the overhanging roof. Sat outside on a white plastic lawn chair and fanned myself with the bus schedule. Felt the trickle run down my back, wriggle between my buttcheeks. It felt like an ant crawling on my skin.

  Wandered for a week. Got chucked from most of the casinos for loitering. “No vagrants,” they said. Christ, it’s a hundred and five out, and a girl can’t cut a break. Went to auditions, grueling nightmares of tap in heels, flashing crotches flagging the director. Woo hoo, look at me! I’ve got the widest gap between my legs! See how high I can kick! Walking, aching, falling through doors into the wall of heat, seas of tourists—yentas in Tyrolean hats, obese polyester-clad Midwesterners, chattering Japanese in cotton sun-hats clutching their cameras. Swam through the mobs with Call you in the morning / I don’t have a phone echoing in my ears. Used the pay phone to check back. Sorry, not what we’re looking for…Tits are too small, doll…Legs are too heavy…Not enough experience…Looking for someone younger.

  Turned ten tricks within the week. Four businessmen, a bus driver, a cop, three guys on leave from their wives’ love affairs with the slots, and the Arab barber from down the street. Ten hermetically sealed cocks of vastly different proportion made my acquaintance and left. Never once heard a complaint about my legs or my tits. I flushed their passing down the drain; I’m noncommittal. It paid for the room, food, and the movies, where it was cool. I’d climb, holding my popcorn and mega-cup, all the way to the balcony, where I’d fish the ice out of my Diet Coke and hold it to my scorched skin. Escape.

  Took a job at the strip club. Work seven to three—seven shows a night. In bed by four, if I’m alone, which is usually.

  Voices in the blue morning told me I had neighbors moving in. Women. A woman. I didn’t know; I heard voices. Doors slamming. I checked the view. No one there, just a big beat-up Dodge Ram parked in front of my room. I padded back to bed and closed my eyes.

  The moaning started after about five minutes. Thumping against the wall, sighs coming through. I pulled the pillow over my head. Squeezed the dawning light out of my eyes. The moans got louder and my hand trailed between my legs in spite of my fatigue. I worked it hard. Swelled and gushed and pulled until I flooded with the final trailing cry and fell into a fitful sleep. The roar of an engine w
oke me at noon. The Ram peeled out of the lot.

  Had to work at three. Took a shower. Fished in my cooler for a beer; found none, so I padded to the Coke machine in my flip-flops and cutoffs, T-shirt, whatever was lying around. The Ram roared back. I found myself saying hello to the driver, surprised when I realized it was a woman. I mean, I’d heard the voices all right—but the person at the wheel didn’t strike me as female.

  This was the funny thing: she looked like Wayne Newton. Okay, okay, like Wayne Newton when he was a kid, before he became smarmy Mr. Vegas and grew the moustache and all. Same swept-back mound of dark hair, cupid’s-bow mouth, deep dimples, crinkled eyes, bolo tie. Not that I have a thing for Newton, it was just…unusual. When she spoke, I had the same reaction: Wayne Newton. That voice—like a lady hockey player. Like Jodie Foster. Jock-ish. A friend calls it Lesbanian, as if there’s a country that produces this particular accent—Lesbania—which has a province where all the womyn look and sound like Vegas lounge-singers and wear western-style tuxes. Thank you, you’ve been a wonderful…I love you. Good night.

  I opened the door to my room, then turned around. “Hey. Are you staying here?” I asked. That’s me—Einstein.

  She nodded, looking me over. “Yeah. Till Sunday. Who’s asking?”

  “Trish,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “Casey,” said she, offering hers.

  “Where’s your friend?” I asked, thinking of the morning. The moaning.

  “Friend?” A pause. “Oh!” She laughed. “Just company.” Blushing. “I’m here on my own.”

  “Why?” I asked, nosy and direct. She told me that she was in town for a celebrity look-alike contest. I told her I bet I could tell who she was appearing as. She laughed again.

  “I sing a mean ‘Danke Schoen,’” she said, and burst into song. Fingers snapping, she stood in the parking space beside her truck and treated me to the whole thing.

  I applauded.

  The contest was on Saturday. It was now just Thursday afternoon. I told her I had to go to work and hooked a thumb in the direction of the club. She nodded and said, “Okay, see ya.”

  Around midnight I was sliding down the pole for the fifth time when I glanced down and spotted her. She had her rhinestone shirt on, with a big turquoise arrowhead clip on her tie. Cowboy boots. Man, was she playing it up. I finished my set and went to sit with her. Had a drink.

  “I want a dance,” she said in my ear. “A dance—just you an’ me.”

  I looked around, confused. “A dance, where?” I asked.

  “Aw, fercrissakes! Here,” she said. “Twenty bucks, right? Take me back there and show me what you can do.”

  I looked around again. Place was deader than usual for a Thursday night. “Sure,” I said. “But no touching—unless I say so.”

  She sat on the banquette, legs spread—no different a posture from the countless men who strained in that room—cigarette in one hand, glass of Scotch beside her. Hooked a finger in my direction and said, “Dance.” Actually, it came out as, “Dansh”—Lesbanian, you know.

  I danced, wanting suddenly to prove myself braver and wilder than any other, moving closer to her with every step, hovered over her quavering thigh and watched her chest heave. Pushed my crotch close to her face and danced away again. Bent from the waist, looking at her from between my legs. Pulled the string aside, gave her a peek. Tease. I came back and settled on her thigh, moved a knee into her crotch, messed her pomaded hair, let my tits graze her hungry mouth and rocked until she joined me.

  I took my twenty and kissed her cheek. Walked to the bar, lit a smoke. Left her on the sofa, sprawled and sweaty. A minute later she followed, trailed her palm across my ass on her way to the door, and left.

  I left through the back door of the club at three-thirty and found her waiting in the truck. It was only a couple of doors to the motel, but there she was, staring out the rolled-down window. She leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  “Give you a ride?” she offered.

  “Where to?”

  “Wherever. Outta here. Get in.”

  I slid into the seat beside her. She leaned over and kissed me hard on the mouth. Her teeth on mine, tongue probing, hot. I thought I’d explode.

  “I felt bad about the club,” she said, coming up for air.

  “Why? It’s my job.” I lit one and blew smoke out the window, heart hammering between my legs.

  “I felt bad about it because I could feel you wet on my thigh and I couldn’t touch.” Busted. Her hand fished a breast out of my blouse, thumbed the nipple. She watched me intently; my lips parted, and by now I was trembling. She turned the key in the ignition. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Okay,” I said weakly. “Go back to the motel?”

  “Nah…have a place in mind.”

  She pointed the Ram toward the desert and thirty minutes later pulled into the ruins of an old service station, drove to the back and killed the lights.

  I was breathing hard; her hand was on my mound, her tongue in my mouth. Shooting stars raced across the sky.

  “Get out of the truck,” she said, and, shivering, I did as I was told. “Get on the hood.” I did. It sagged and buckled a bit under my weight, but it was warm and I didn’t much mind the cold air, with that much heat rising beneath me. My breath escaped, vaporous in the dark.

  “Lie down.” She ran her hands up my legs, yanked my thong off and tossed it into the dust. Licked a nipple, flicked it with her tongue. It contracted in the cold; got stiff. Hands like hard little animals spidered down my sides, burrowed in the folds between my legs. Her tongue stiff, pushy, burning. Two fingers neatly hooked into me, pulling me toward oblivion. Satellites raced overhead, and I rose up and screamed into the empty desert night.

  On the ride back to the motel, I fell into a deep sleep. I called in sick the next day. We ran off to the movies, sat in the balcony necking. I showed her my trick with the ice. She held a chip in her mouth and another to my nipple, secretively, silent in the dark. Cooled my neck, my earlobe with her tongue. I unzipped her pants, felt the damp curl of hair through her briefs. A rush of heat. She pushed her hips forward and, stunned, I found her clit. It was enormous. Hell, I’d had tricks with smaller dicks than that. I looked at her. Into my ear, through my hair, she whispered, “Stroke it…I like it when it’s stroked.”

  I jerked her off between my fingers, almost like I would a man, while she bit my neck and stifled her voice. I’d lost mine.

  Back at the motel, I asked her to fuck me with it. She was happy to oblige. It wasn’t so much the penetration that was satisfying—it was just barely possible—it was just the idea of it. It stuck out through the cotton of her briefs: a freak thing she said she’d had all her life, enhanced somewhat by a treatment she was taking. She was sopping wet and hard as a date pit and my insides knotted up as soon as it tickled the mouth of my cunt. We came crashing together, our legs tense, toes cocked, trails of ooze shining on our thighs, our bellies. Her perfect backswept coif hung in her eyes; her small, dark tits pointed. She was a study in points. When she lay back, nipples and clit strained at the ceiling, then faded into the planes of her body as her arousal ebbed.

  Saturday, I went to see her show. She sang “Danke Schoen” and winked at me when she came to the line “Picture shows, second balcony…” She placed second and won a shitpile of money. Got beaten by some guy from San Fran who impersonated Siegfried, Roy, and the tigers. He got even more dough.

  Back at the motel she announced that she was going to go on to Oakland where there awaited the matter of a little surgery she wanted to have done. The winnings, added to what she’d already saved, would get her there.

  She packed the Ram on Sunday. Rolled out into the morning sun, tossed her last bag next to her seat in the cab. I stayed behind, still believing I’d make the chorus line, get a little apartment; even in winter it’s warmer than Buffalo.

  She promised she’d be back. I watched her drive off in the truck with a wink a
nd a wave. Watched her drive off to become a man. Maybe then she could actually pass, maybe grow that mustache, maybe win next time. I thought she was fine just as she was, but it wasn’t my life. No, sir, not at all.

  SHADOW CHILD

  Cheyenne Blue

  SHE HAS ALWAYS FOLLOWED PEOPLE, SLIPPING through the shadows in their wake, pattering on soft-shod feet in and out of darkness and pools of light, daring them to turn and see her.

  When she was small, she would follow her mother around the house, peering out of closet doors and spying under the shower curtain at her mother’s dimpled and voluptuous figure shaving her legs in the shower.

  “Adrienne?” Her mother’s tired voice, separating each syllable of her name, rising up at the end in warning, would result in cascading giggles through chubby fingers and inevitably the wide-eyed horror of the chase, the capture, and the punishment.

  But even the humiliation of a red, stinging bottom would not stop her stalking. She would watch her mother, plump thighs spread on the toilet bowl, belly quivering, the wipe of the brown furred gash with the pink paper. She would watch her brother, fingering his pee-pee, playing with the pinched tip and the hairless empty sacs of skin that hung below.

  Daringly, she followed her third-grade teacher out of school, into the parking lot. She slunk into the backseat of her car when the teacher placed books and papers on the passenger seat and fumbled for the dropped keys at her feet. Huddled on the floor, feeling the thrum of the driveshaft under her cheek on the puppy-pee–smelling carpet, Adrienne rode home with her teacher, creeping out of the unlocked car in the darkened garage long after dinnertime.