I have a very good friend. She is comfortable to talk to. We talk
about books, people we have known, and things we would like to do
someday. She pays attention to the things I have to say, which is
very flattering. Even nicer, she shares her feelings with me,
which makes me feel privileged, special, connected. We meet once
a week for coffee and a chat in the teashop down the street. The
chats can get pretty boisterous, but we have to keep it fairly
tame because we are in public. She is my best friend, and we
laugh a lot together.
Today, we are having such a nice talk, that I don’t want it to
end. The waitress is starting to give us the evil eye for tying
up a table for so long, but my son isn’t due home from school for
hours, and I don’t want her to go. I explain that my house is
just down the street. We can go there and talk some more. I
invite her in and show her around the house. I fix a pot of
decaf and we sit down in the living room to continue our talk.
Something has changed in the few minutes that it takes to pay the
bill and walk home. Probably because of the interruption, the
atmosphere is a little more strained than it was at the teashop.
She seems nervous; as though there is something she needs to say
yet is afraid to say. Haltingly she tells me that she is a
lesbian and that she didn’t tell me because it might wreck our
friendship. She starts to cry. I feel so sorry for her. I am
anxious to reassure her that I wouldn’t stop being her friend
just because of her sexual preference. I put my arms around her,
just to comfort her. She snuggles close. Soon the hugs turn into
caresses. We are sitting on the couch, knee to knee, with our
arms around each other, her head resting on my shoulder, her face
toward my neck. She lifts her chin. Very gently, she starts
kissing the hollow above my collarbone. I can feel her warm
breath on my neck and it makes my chest ache. I bend my head to
meet hers, and we kiss.
The very gentle, friendship-type kiss turns more passionate. We
hear voices and suddenly remember that the window curtains are
open and anyone passing by could see in. We jump apart.
Flustered, she gathers up her things and thanks me for a nice
chat. She keeps her eyes downcast as though afraid to look at me,
afraid that she would see that our friendship has ended. She
looks so unhappy. As she gets to the door I feel like my heart
might break- partly in sympathy but partly because I know that,
if she leaves now, she’ll never come back. “Don’t go,” I say.
She waits for me at the front door. I walk toward her with my
arms open.
With a funny noise that is part sob and part sigh, she rushes to
meet me. We hold each other, rocking gently back and forth for a
moment. “Please make love to me,” she whispers.
The master bedroom would be too weird, too crowded with marital
ghosts for comfort. I take her to the guest room. This was an
ex-wife’s bed. I’ve never made love in it, so, perversely; it
seems less crowded, less complicated. That decision contains the
implicit choice to cheat on my husband, but I push that thought
aside. Suddenly, I am paralyzed with stage fright. I’ve seen sexy
movies with girl-girl scenes, but, if the straight scenes in
triple x movies don’t bear any resemblance to real love-making, I
can hardly expect the lesbian scenes to be very realistic. “I
don’t know what to do,” I whine. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you,”
she replies.
She gently undresses me, kissing each part of me as it becomes
exposed. As I step out of my panties, she caresses the curve of
my waist and hip. “I just knew you would look like this,” she
breathes. She turns me toward the mirror. Standing behind me, she
puts her arms around my waist and looks over my shoulder into the
mirror. “Just look at how beautiful you are.”
I stand there at the foot of the bed, gazing at our reflection. I
watch us in the mirror as she kisses and caresses me, sucks my
nipples, and finally kneels in the floor in front of me to ever
so gently kiss my clit.
I explode like a rocket and change from passive to passionate.
Somehow, suddenly we are on the floor in a writhing tangle as I
kiss her madly and tug at her clothes. She laughs breathlessly
and says “I thought you were a happily married woman.” I have to
laugh, too. “So did I,” I reply.
“Wait. Just watch for a minute,” she tells me. I sit in the floor
and watch her slowly, sensuously undress, her eyes locked on mine
the entire time. As the impromptu strip-tease comes to an end,
she throws her head back and laughs. She cups both breasts in her
hands and jiggles them in a silly yet provocative way and makes
pouty faces at her reflection in the mirror. She pinches her
nipples until they stand up, firm and dark pink. “Now we are
both beautiful,” she says. She moves to the bed, carefully folds
back the covers, and slides in. I join her. We lay there facing
each other in the middle of the bed. Before I can get stage
fright again, she smiles and says “Don’t think so much. Just hold
me.” We kiss, slowly and deeply. We caress each other, gently, on
the face and neck and shoulders. She moves my hands to her
breasts as though giving me permission to touch. When her hands
wander down my belly, the skins tingles like an electric shock.
As I squeeze her breasts, her hands wander down my hips and
thighs. I am so aroused that I ache. I am a slippery mess
half-way down my thighs, so my desire is evident. She pushes
against me until I roll onto my back. Her hand moves purposefully
down my stomach, over the arch of my pelvis, to my wet, throbbing
lips. She rubs once, twice, three times, and I come in a spasm
that is almost convulsive. “The first one is free,” she says.
“The second one will cost you.”
Gradually, my inhibitions fall away as she shows me exactly where
to kiss, exactly where to rub, exactly where to lick. I become an
eager pupil, and then, I feel comfortable enough to show her
exactly what I want-little secrets like the fact that the left
side of my clit is more sensitive than the right and that I like
her to suck hard on my nipples but not to bite. We end up in the
sixty-nine position, and the taste and smell and feel of her is
so overwhelming that it is almost too much for me to bear.
Afterwards, we are both tired and almost sore. There is just
enough time for a quick shower. Showering with another woman
would have been another sexy, sensual experience, but I am too
aware of the time and too suddenly shy to take full advantage of
it. I dress hurriedly and try to straighten the room, try to
erase the evidence of our afternoon. She sighs, “We can’t go
back. This has changed our friendship forever.” I stop fussing
with the bedclothes and grin at her. “What are you doing next
Tuesday?” I answer.