Who are these women? Could either of them be me? I look at this scene through the eyes of a girl waking up from a slumber party. I look with innocent eyes. Eyes that say, this could be me. This has been me. Giggling girls. Sleep away camp. An overnight high school excursion. College roommates. Sorority sisters. Road trips. First apartment. Cheap vacations. Six to a room. Many times.
I look with innocent eyes. At friends, secret sharers, confidantes, a warm shoulder, beautiful breasts. Beautiful breasts? Did I just say that? I’ve never even thought that. I roll over onto my side and try to regain sleep. The same sleep that had been visited and disturbed over and over again by a shadowy image. An image too vague to gain shape, too ethereal to take on weight and substance. An image that I know but have never acknowledged. Then why does she disturb me so? How do I even know that it’s a she?
With closed eyes I will it away, or, if not away, then to change. Please change to the familiar, I beg. Or at least take on the smells and textures that I’ve known in the past. The weight that I’ve laid beneath, the rhythm that isn’t mine. Yet it refuses to budge, this weightless, shapeless, colorless thing. This breeze who visits me only when the night is at its darkest. This spectre who makes my skin flush, who leaves me damp and uneasy. I don’t know her yet I see her everywhere. In magazines, on billboards, a TV sitcom, even in a video I once rented and watched over and over again. Angry and fascinated at the same time. Who are these women?
When my bedmate in a sleep far deeper than mine rolls against me, I find that instead of retreating I draw her into me, burying my face in her sleepy hair. It’s such an easy gesture, so natural. We’re just two girls keeping warm, snuggling up. This is innocent, I tell myself. Someone happening upon us wouldn’t think otherwise. Girls always get cold. We’re naturally more affectionate then men. We need to be held. This is all that you see, nothing more. So why then am I holding my breath? Why is every inch of my skin that touches hers’ suddenly exquisitely sensitive?
I wait in a dreadful silence. Because the last thing I want right now is for her not to be here against me. It’s not until the pressure in my lungs becomes unbearable that I exhale and soften against this beautiful creature lying next to me. And then it becomes easier. My other hand finds the warm smoothness of her back — her modest sleep shirt having left it conveniently bare to my touch. And I drift downward over that ass I’ve admired and longed for so many times. In tight jeans, loose skirts, silk, rayon and lycra. And now it’s beneath my hand, warm and smooth and soft and suddenly, alive!
I feel a subtle shift of her hips. Certainly not from anything of my own doing. My hands are so light they’d be unnoticeable. Especially to one so asleep. No, I’ve imagined it. Wished it. Her breathing is deep and symmetrical. I caress again. And again the response is there. The small circle of warmth pressing against my own bare thigh is unmistakable. But this time I withdraw my hand slightly, letting it hover over her. Hoping to raise questions with its absence. To my delight and utter amazement, she answers them. Fully. Completely. Truthfully. Me, the silent pursuer, now becomes the pursued. In a flash, there are no more questions, only an inescapable truth that I’ve labored mightily to ignore — her mouth on mine, still sleepy and warm.
It shouldn’t be this familiar. It shouldn’t feel like just a kiss. This can’t be just a kiss. This is me kissing a girl. Really kissing. Not some minor league practice session. This is a wonderful, long, slow kiss. With a girl.
I’m torn between wanting to stop and ponder that reality and staying focused on the sweet sensations I’m tasting. I consciously choose the latter, but can’t help wishing I could somehow watch myself. That would be truly delicious. And what would I the lucky viewer see? I can’t answer that question because I’m too carried away by this feast I have in front of me. I want to taste everything at once; her delicate breasts, juicy ass, mahogany pussy, all new for me. All places to feed a hunger that, until a few minutes ago, I couldn’t even admit I’d ached for.
I’m at risk of taking in too much too quickly. I’ve got to pace myself but god this woman feels good. I reach for her breasts, taut and tender, I can move them, pinch them, twist them, play with them. I’m playing with them. God, she’s letting me play with her tits! Those breasts that I’ve lusted over, especially as I’ve watched her wiggle and twist her way into a bra every morning. Except on the days when she doesn’t wear a bra. When her breasts swell against tight fabric and create a shape so perfect that you could excuse even the most obvious, leering stares. Those breasts that I’ve tasted numerous times, when, alone in the shower and I’m absolutely certain I’m alone, I stretch out my tongue and flick back and forth over my own nipples. Until they’re icy solid and demand to be squeezed hard. Hard enough to feel that stabbing sensation that terminates sharply between my legs.
Because we’re the same, the pleasure of everything I do is doubled. I know with intimate certainty everything she’s feeling inside, because her body is mine. Maybe that’s what’s so different about this — being with another woman. It hadn’t occurred to me until now but when I’ve been with a man, there’s always this kind of made-up empathy. We think what we’re doing feels good to our partner, but we never really know for sure. So to make up for it, we develop a kind of sexual Braille. Imagining the sensation that our partners feel. But with her, the distance between us isn’t so great. It’s not separated by the differences of gender. And so…
As I find myself moving towards that warm place between her legs.
As I use my shoulders to give me better access.
As I pull her lips apart and taut.
As I tentatively extend my tongue.
As her tart scent registers on me.
As I recognize her individual taste.
As I push skin away.
As I probe.
As I reveal.
As I give to her in the only way I know how.
Which is exactly the way I would give it to myself. I realize this is what makes it so different. There isn’t a need to ask. Because I already know. Okay…. if not for certain, than with much more certainty.
Because I’ve never had a penis. Or a dick. Or a cock. I’ve never had an erection at a time when I didn’t want one. I’ve never been soft when I’ve wanted to be rock hard. I’ve never understood why being big was so important. I’ve never jerked off. Never experienced a blow job. Never squirted that thick milky stuff. Never had to, just had to come in your mouth. And never needed to be reassured that I like the way you taste, and yes, I can’t wait to taste it again.
With her there’s none of that uncertainty. I know exactly what I’m doing. And so informed I give in just the same way I’ve always wanted to receive. In short, I am the perfect servant. Always anticipating my master’s wishes. Knowing what they want even before they ask. And then giving it to them in just the right way. The right speed, the right pressure, the right duration. And most importantly… just the right place. No need to say, “right there, yeah there.” Thinking to myself, “why can’t he ever find it.” It’s not such a small target. And right now, it feels so red and swollen how could he not know what I want.
So when her moans of approval become more demanding, I feel like the brainy kid in class who always knew the right answer. This is easy, I think to myself. As my tongue alternately flicks and nibbles and sucks and buzzes and probes and circles and lashes and licks and teases and tastes and, and, and… Oh god! Every sensation I give doubles back on itself and becomes my own.
I move with confidence and grace born of a certainty gained from not only knowing the outcome… but controlling every moment that happens in the middle. From making this moaning, sweaty instrument my own orchestra. She is so close. Should I make her wait? Back off ever so slightly? Sometimes it’s the empty space between the notes that is the most beautiful part of the music. Do I give her that last little nudge? The one that sets off a chain of events that can’t be stopped.
Or maybe I’ll play both sides and keep her on the edge for so long that it all becomes like one of those confounding illusions where anxiety gets all mixed up with the incredible pleasure. But instead, like a child, I can’t help myself… or her for that matter.
Her orgasm becomes mine. I know every contraction, every shudder, that moment where the throbbing explodes against the base of my spine and throws my head back in a frantic limbic whiplash.
“Come for me, baby,” I whisper, “come”. Everything begins to smear and blur and go totally out of focus and is that me saying god and goodness? Or is it her? Did she just come? Or did I? Have I lost or found myself here? And so once again I ask myself. Who are these women?
Could either of them ever be me? I close my eyes and ponder that question. I have to look deep inside in order to answer. After all, I’m not closed minded. I don’t want to rush to a response. But just as I’m about to answer and speak with the certainty gained from maturity and self-knowledge. Just as I’m about declare that “no, this could never be me.” I feel an unmistakable wetness between my legs. So demanding I’ve got to investigate. I reach under my skirt and with one hand pull the cotton of my panties aside and with the other slide my fingers between my lips. This can’t be. I’m soaked. I’m dripping. I’m so ready for it. I spread my legs and close my eyes. Out of the darkness I see an image slowly coming into focus. That nameless, weightless, colorless spectre is kneeling in front of me. And she’s gorgeous.