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It will be nice to
get out of the house. Jodie's moping in the lounge ready to burst into
sobbing for no apparent reason. And then she's gone, to her room I
suppose. I go out food shopping and when I return Marcel's on the couch
where Jodie's been all day. He has a video playing. Takes me a moment to
work out what's going on. It's them, last night, with the tart. I don't
look long enough or hard enough to see whose arse it is going up and down
between her legs. I tell him it's disgusting and he says, 'Yeah.'
Later Marcel's gone out and Jodie still hasn't surfaced and curiosity
kills me and passing the couch anyway I flick the play button and the
tape's still there. Just like Marcel. From the odd shape of the picture
he's had the camera under a coat or something, on his table, looking
straight up the bed. The scene is one of subdued excess. The tart's laying
on her front, not really moving, legs spread out behind. David is
half-heartedly fucking her. He climbs off and
shakes his head and Marcel takes over, doing his best to get a semi-hard
cock into her. David watches for a while. Marcel is a bit more energetic
and makes her groan a protest, but in a moment he too seems bored and gets
off. David gets on again. I am affected by the dullness of it all.
Except I rewind a little to be sure. And yes I can see to the left part of
Damiens's leg. From the glimpses of his hand and cock it's clear he's
sitting in a chair masturbating. As the guys get on and off the tart I see
she's watching Damien with an almost maternal pride. From woman to woman
I'd have to say she wants him. Or perhaps she's had him already and he's
the only one who's made her come. There's just that kind of dreamy
wistfulness in her eyes. Nothing that's going on behind her matters, only
her Damien rolling his foreskin up and down as though he's doing it for
her. Soon he stands and watches David fuck his tart. He comes around,
obscures the camera briefly, leans over the back of David. Without warning
I'm watching what almost becomes a fight. David pushes him hard and Damien
retreats out of sight. While this is going on, thinking no one can see
her, the tart gently massages herself from underneath. Now she's looking
the other way, I guess watching her beautiful Damien. I don't think she
even knows who gets on her again.
Decisions, decisions. I decide on tight jeans and sandals, a black top,
bare midriff showing my belly button. Discreet earrings and a hint of
makeup. Not too lez, not too straight. To soften the image I leave my hair
out. Kay is very femme. I'm sure she'll like this. In the darkness of the
cinema our arms meet and touch. She doesn't pull away. She turns her hand
palm upward and I complement it with my own, fingers meshed. Later she
needs her hand to open a mint. This is the anxious moment. Will she return
to the touch? I wait and wait and wait. She throws the wrapper under the
seat, closes the bag, tucks it away. And then there it is. Her arm is
pressed against mine once more. I take her hand. She squeezes my fingers
and we mesh.
It seems that just as Ms. Hulot negotiates the perils of the modern world,
we two negotiate the perils of a lesbian seduction. And that beautiful
squeeze she gave me will go down in my diaries as one of the great erotic
moments of my life. That squeeze said it all. I want you. Take my panties
off. Kiss me till I come. At least I think that's what it said.
Outside the cinema there's nothing more to say. We stand close watching
the crowd dispel into the night. I glance up at her. She is very beautiful
tonight, flushed and yet sure of herself. I ask if she's coming over for a
coffee. She says, 'Are they home?' Meaning the idiot boys. Unfortunately I
must nod. 'What about your place? We could have coffee there?' She says
her cousin's staying with her. I suggest we could have coffee alone in my
room. 'I'm never disturbed there. It's like my own little world.' She
purses her lips apologetically. She goes home. I go home and climb into
bed aroused yet numb. I curl into a ball and whisper goodnight to my
pillow.
Marcel has gone out and Jodie's still sulking in her room. I call Kay and
sit in the bright morning sunshine. We talk for an hour. I invite her
over, but she's doing something. I find Jodie watching television eating
breakfast. Or is it lunch. Her hair's a mess. Hasn't been out of her room
since yesterday afternoon. She's wearing just a floppy singlet and
panties. Her left breast is exposed through the arm hole down to the brown
pointed nipple. Her slit is perfectly outlined in her panties. I could
tell her she shouldn't dress like this, not around here with the boys
likely to turn up at any moment. She wouldn't care though. I came home
once and found her watching Oprah, spread-eagle, absently stroking her
clit with the tip of a pencil. I was the one who was embarrassed.
I sit with her, amused that the sight of her naked breast does not in any
way interest me. I pat her thigh. 'You can tell me anything. Whatever it
is that's worrying you.' She throws herself out of the couch dramatically.
To complete the theatre she cries, 'For fuck's sake. If you must know. I
think I'm a fucking dyke.' Actually, her tight bottom ripples quite nicely
when she makes an angry stomp. The boom of her door echoes down the hall.
I don't see her again till dinner time.
I find Marcel's tape on top of the cabinet, slip it in the player. Just
wondering. It seems much later in the night now. Damien is on the bed
alone with the tart. She's curled into a plump ball leaning over his
hairless stomach. She holds his limp cock like a hot saveloy, kissing the
glans. I need to sit down.
I turn the sound up a bit. Someone's snoring, Marcel or David. I assume
they're on the floor. Damien smokes a cigarette blowing lazy plumes into
the air, ignoring the tart and his cock. The tart revels. She is
fascinated. She rolls the foreskin, chews it, stretches it with her lips,
rolls it down, savours the knob against her tongue. She kisses the slack
glans with genuine tenderness, slaps it playfully against her cheeks and
outstretched tongue, blows kisses and air. She holds his sack, feels the
loose balls inside, pinches the skin, teases the hairs.
Damien lights another cigarette. He contemplates her and yet doesn't seem
to notice the extraordinary loving she gives his cock, or that she is
becoming excited. She is restless. Her whole body seems to swell with a
sensual voluptuousness. Damien is behind her, so only the camera sees how
now and then she strokes and squeezes a breast, a nipple. She pinches the
protruding lips of her pussy, massages them, pushes a finger deep
underneath her belly and hair. After some time she says something to
Damien too low to hear. Damien nods and stubs out his smoke. The tart
rolls over facing him, brings her pussy around nearer his head. She lifts
a leg up and back, resumes kissing his knob. Damien seems more interested
now. I can see his hand working behind her fluffy brown hair. He is
opening her, touching the lips, exploring, fingering. She responds with a
shudder, head drooped in surrender, lips parted. She reaches over her
belly, her nipples hard and long now. She masturbates while he feels her
inside. Damien's cock lengthens, begins to stand up between his legs. She
pulls it over, swallows it to his balls in a single glide. Unfortunately
here the tape ends.
Ok, that's it. I give up. I hurry to my room, get naked, throw myself on
the bed. I spread my legs, hook them back under my arms, pussy stretched.
This is good. I relax the muscles and watch and feel the lips fold open,
my hole loosening into a perfect O. This is good too. Fantasies cascade
through my mind one after the other. Damien lowers his endless cock into
my gaping pussy. Jodie whimpers while an unknown third person forces her
mouth down on my cunt. My ex-lover smacks my pussy and arse with a riding
crop, fucks me with the handle. I am wet and unbearably aroused by three
days of frustration over Kay, by Damien and the tart, by just being alone
for so long.
Playtime is over. My whole body tells me it's time to come. Not that I
could stop right now anyway. My favourite way, one lip pulled tight, two
wet fingers scissoring my clit. Delicious friction spreading a warmth
becoming urgent. I start to come, hook a finger inside, pull hard. I
vibrate my clit, scratch it with a fingernail just like my first ever
lover taught me. Hovering. Stroking. Squeezing away the waves of pleasure.
This is what it's all about. These six tiny seconds of orgasmic eternity.
And before long I'm going to do this to Kay.
I read the newspaper, my body still tingling and refreshed, ignoring Jodie
at the table by the window in the late afternoon sun. I can't help
wondering if she will ever get dressed again. She's curled into a ball on
the chair, head bowed, hair hanging limply as she picks at her fingers.
Out of nowhere she asks, 'What's it like being a lesbian.' I have several
pointed answers for her. Instead I say, 'Jodie. You are not a lesbian.'
She pulls a face. After a while she says on Friday night her friend Kelly
kissed her. 'That doesn't make you a lesbian.' She says, 'But after, I
wanted her to do it again. I enjoyed it.' Oh boy. 'Still doesn't make you
a lesbian. You're curious. That's all.' She gives me a stare across the
room. I wish she would go away again.
In the kitchen making toast I daydream it's Kay here helping prepare a
post-coital feast for our room. Jodie leans against the door jamb. She
says softly, forcefully, 'I never come with a guy. When she kissed me, I
nearly did it. You've got no idea how it made me feel.' Maybe I have. I
ask, 'Do you come on your own ok?' She says with credulously zeal, 'Never
have any problem.' I tell her, 'Then you're just not trying hard enough.
With guys, I mean.' She sighs. I force her a sympathetic smile. Her
nipples are so hard her singlet stands out like a circus tent. I don't
know what she's thinking about in that pretty head of hers, or what she's
playing at. Fuck. I just want to eat my toast in peace and think about
Kay.
I make my way past and she says, 'But you haven't answered my question.
What's it like?' I think about this. I recall my first time. In a motel
room, drunk, with a woman whose face I can hardly remember, a woman whose
infinite variety of sensual delight are forever imprinted on my psyche. We
did that one night everything it is possible for two women to do.
Absolutely everything. My tongue ached for days. We fucked, showered,
fucked, showered, and then fucked some more. I tell Jodie with all
honesty, 'There is nothing like it in the whole world.'
We are interrupted by a tapping at the front door. I want it so much to be
Kay. My heart pounds. I dash to my room, set down the tea and toast,
straighten myself. But it's the tart, not looking so much a tart, slacks
and conservative blouse, hair tidy. She is very short and squat. She says,
'Damien?' Her accent is heavy, pronounces his name Dam-yen, softly,
sentimentally. I tell her he doesn't live here. She says, 'No, no, no. He
ask me meet him here. Now.' She is nervous. She shouldn't be here.
I point her down to the lounge to wait and leave her and close the door to
my room. This is an odd thing. Am I just a little jealous? Obviously she
and Damien have been in contact, and he wants to see her. He could have
just about any girl he wanted, but I don't need to wonder what it is this
woman can offer him. I do wonder if I couldn't do the same. I could suck
his cock like she did, if I really wanted. I could lay like that, let him
finger me, kiss me, make me feel nice. And his reward would be a tight
moist pussy for us both to enjoy, not some yawning cunt as hairy as an
ancient yak.
I nibble at my toast. Other things become clear. Jodie. I can see what has
happened. On Friday night it was she who kissed her friend. Not the other
way round as she tells it. The friend didn't like it, rejected her, and
Jodie has spent the last days upset, angry and confused. And so is she
flirting with me now? Most of the time she parades herself half naked in
front of me. She often comes into the bathroom when I shower. I shudder
when I think about it. I don't like her in that way. I don't want her to
like me.
After nearly an hour when I go down the tart is still there, waiting. No
Damien. She asks if she can use the phone, dials a number, lets it ring
out and dials again. She has hardly sat down when she's up at the phone
again. This time someone answers and she slams down the receiver. She is
clearly pale, trembling. She says, 'Tell Damien I cannot wait.' I hear the
real fear in her voice. She makes an apology and hurries away to the front
door and is gone. This is getting weird. A little later when I think of it
I press the redial button. A gruff foreign man answers.
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