Subscribe in a reader

by Janet Trakin

I had tried to seduce her before, stripping naked-notwithstanding my socks-because I was too drunk to drive home. It didn’t work. It was if I were a translucent ghost.

She had occupied the side of the bed facing the bathroom and closet alcove. She stared at it, clutching the pillow. She had not even bothered to undress, getting under the covers with her jeans and blouse. I had unzipped my jeans, performing a stork-like balancing act while removing them. Then, I tore off my denim shirt in my most macho manner as if I were going to make passionate love. Removing my panties, I had stood stark naked, pussy shaved, there for the taking, like a carved turkey on Thanksgiving.

“Do you like what you see?” I had asked her. She craned her neck, glanced at my bare body, sniffled and rolled over. No comment. I took this rejection lightly as I had others, and just settled in the bed for a good night’s sleep away from my apartment and cat. One cannot expect too much from this life no matter how hard one tries. Unlike Tori, I am an opportunist, seizing each and every opportunity for sex. I had thought this situation would lend itself to some fun and excitement, a deviation from the routine of looking for a job, cleaning and doing laundry. I was wrong. I wish more women thought like me.

I should have known she would reject me. In her profile on Planet Out she had indicated that, among other things, she was looking for “sex.” On our first date, when I pointed that out to her, she had replied, “That was then, this is now.” As is the case with personals, she also lied about her sexual orientation. She wrote that she was a “lesbian” and then proceeded to tell me she was “bisexual.” My heart had dropped. I did not want to have to compete with a man.

In any case, I immediately feel asleep, and the next morning I awoke to an empty bed. I panicked for a moment, not knowing where I was, my head fuzzy and slightly confused. Where was she? She had heard the rustling from the bed and greeted me with, “You were snoring, so I slept in the living room.”

My clothes lay in a neat little pile by the side of the bed, like a puddle of water, and I dressed quickly. I craved a cigarette which propelled me out the door and to my car. I lit up, and reflected on my way home, somewhat disappointed but equally amused.

Now, I was plotting again. Like Werther in Goethe’s The Sufferings of Young Werther, I never give up. I really liked Tori. She was literary, an artist and funny when telling her droll rejection stories. We somehow managed to remain friends after my initial seduction-I suppose she did not take me seriously–and she invited me over again. It must have empowered her to reject someone rather to be rejected. We were both desperate for companionship.

She invited me into her music room where she sat in front of her keyboards playing Mozart. I reclined on the futon and let the music envelop me. She poured her heart into the piece, my love and admiration for her growing with each note. The sun shown through the drapes and cast shadows on the floor. Soon, there would be a sunset as her condo faced west. For once, thoughts of food did not plague me. I wanted to make love to her.

I could feel her long fingers in my pussy. I wanted to fondle her breasts.

“Tori, you are so gifted,” I said with so much feeling it sounded like a whine. “I want to make love to you.”

“Sarah, surely you jest,” she replied. She had an inferiority complex and did not believe that anyone wanted her.

“No, Tori, I’m serious,” I said. “What can I do to convince you that the only thing that remains for us to do is consummate the relationship?”

“I’m terrible in bed,” Tori said.

“I don’t care. I just want to hold you,” I replied.

I went over to her and could smell her natural smell. The smell of flesh. The smell of humanity. I put my hand on her shoulder. She slouched. It was as if detaching her from her keyboards was like detaching her from her life force. She was vulnerable.

“Let’s go to bed,” I said.

I took her hand and we left the lavender room, passing the framed autographed album of Julian Lennon. It read, “To Tori, With Love.” I thought to myself, To The Bedroom, With Tori.

She lay in bed with her black jeans and thrift store floral silk blouse and stared at the ceiling. I kissed her cheek. Then I put my arms around her. She moved to face me. I put my hand on her face, and she softened. My lips touched hers and then I licked her lips with my tongue. She opened her mouth. My tongue linked with her tongue like a gold clasp on a bracelet. We embraced.

I unbuttoned her blouse and she took her arms out of the sleeves. She was being cooperative. Then I undid her bra. Her nipples were erect, and I immediately sucked on them. They were the forbidden fruits of lesbian love. Then I unzipped her pants and took them off. She was wearing bloomers that my Grandma would wear. I hid my laughter, and smiled to myself. It was so in character for Tori. I then removed her panties, and felt her swollen lips. They were as wet as a rain slicker during a downpour. Then I munched on them. I tasted the juices, and they were so sweet like a sweet tart. I was still dressed. Then, I put my thumb on her clit and began rubbing. I expected a marathon affair, but she came in an instant. Quietly, but absolutely. I had triumphed.

“Are you up for me?” I asked her.

“Uh, I guess so,” she replied. “It would help to take your clothes off.”

I sat on the side of the bed and removed my jeans and t-shirt. I then got under the sheets with my panties still on. She started stroking my legs with her long fingers, and I could feel chills up and down my spine. Then she squeezed my nipples between her thumb and forefinger.

“Harder,” I said. “Harder.”

“My, you are a masochist,” she said.

“I like pain, yes,” I replied.

Tori squeezed my breast and I could feel myself getting hot. I took off my panties.

“Ah, now fuck me, puhlease…” I groaned. “Four fingers.”

She leaned over and faced me. Then she entered her four fingers as directed. They hit my sphincter muscle and I had a vaginal orgasm.

“Rub my clit,” I ordered.

She took her two lanky fingers and stroked my little bud till I could feel the waves of pleasure throughout my body. I groaned, was silent and then let out a yelp. The calm before the storm. Then the apex of the isoseles triangle. The pinnacle of pleasure. The orgasm.

“We did it, Tori,” I said. “We both came.” I gasped for breath with a huge sense of satisfaction.

“That’s the first orgasm I have had in three years,” Tori said. “I can’t believe you talked me into it.”

“Yes, sex is a wonderful thing,” I said. “It cures the ills. I even forgive you for rejecting me last time.”

“Yes, that was funny. I give you credit for trying. And your persistence paid off,” Tori said.

“Now, what do we do for an encore?”

“How about Mozart? He set us up.”

“I’m game,” I replied. She smiled at me.

About the Author
Janet Trakin is a published journalist, ghostwriter, poetess and short story writer. Her work has appeared in the Advocate, Bare Back Magazine, and Freestylevision.com. She is an ex-New Yorker who moved to Los Angeles via South Florida. Janet brings us an LGBT piece about a woman who relentlessly pursues another woman based upon her appreciation for her art.

This is the first of several stories included in the LGBT Literature series.

(1 votes, average: 3 out of 5)

 Loading ...