So I, being the reasonable one (and, by the way, how fucking wrong is that?) start saying nice things to her like: “Having sex with a woman once does not a lesbian make.” And: “Having sex with me certainly doesn’t, as it is exactly like having sex with a man.” None of which is working. She begins a tirade, no, more like dissertation consisting of some very uncomplimentary things about first, lesbians in general; and second, me specifically: That I am callous. That this is just a conquest for me, “another notch on my belt” is how she actually put it. That I got what I wanted and now what was I going to do…?
Of course I am thinking I GOT WHAT I WANTED?! All I wanted was uncomplicated casual sex with a horny babe that I just met. Yeah. I really got what I wanted.
Then she says: “I’m having an emotional crisis, and you don’t even care!” That is when the obvious solution hit me and I answered, “You know what? You’re right.” Then I left.
I am unsure what my lesson should be from this experience. I think some would say, “Be more careful and gentle with women and their emotions and their perception of intimacy.” However, I think the lesson might be this: If a story begins with the sentence “I was fucking this straight girl…” there needs to be a roofie involved, or it will end in tears.
Better still, the next time I’m feeling “anxious,” if you know what I mean, I will put down the girl and pick up a good book of Lesbian Erotica. Why… here’s one now!
Lea DeLaria
THE STRIPPER AND THE BUTCH WANNABE
Renée Strider
Van’s new girlfriend, Julia, was a gorgeous femme, a weekend stripper, and a top in the bedroom—or any room. Van loved femmes. The sight of Julia in her normal outfit of blouse and close-fitting business skirt always sent a surge of pleasure through Van, who loved Julia’s svelte figure, especially her tight round ass and long legs made even more shapely by the high heels she usually wore.
Van didn’t mind Julia being a stripper, as long as she didn’t have to go and watch her lover being watched. She had once asked Julia why she stripped, and Julia had said that the extra money helped support her habit, a taste for expensive clothes and paintings. Besides, she enjoyed it and got to use some of her dance training.
What Van did have a small problem with was that Julia was always in charge when they had sex. Van, whose real name was Vanessa, considered herself a butch, and felt that being dominated by her girlfriend was just plain wrong. But Julia had never taken Van’s butchness seriously in the month or so that they’d been lovers. She often called Van her “sweet little butch,” even though Van was taller. Van was—and looked—younger, though, so that probably didn’t help.
Julia came home late at night on weekends—often Van picked her up—still smelling of sweat and smoke because she preferred to shower at home. When she was warm and clean and soap-scented, Julia was always ready for sex.
Last Saturday, with her damp, black, shoulder-length hair combed back from her face and her color high from arousal and hot water, she’d approached Van, who was sitting sprawled on the couch, waiting impatiently and wet with desire. Julia was naked except for a towel knotted around her waist. She knelt in front of Van and took off her lover’s socks and unbuttoned her Levi’s and yanked them off, along with the briefs. She didn’t let Van do anything. The tone had been established, somehow, right from the beginning. And Van could hardly complain, especially at a time like this, when Julia spread Van’s legs wide, urging her to tilt her pelvis toward Julia’s waiting mouth. Groaning blissfully, Julia sucked her and licked her to a jerking climax.
Van was still limp and moaning softly when Julia got up, untied the towel and straddled her. She arched against Van and grabbed her hands, pulling one to a breast and one between her thighs. She rocked on Van, onto her hand, forcing the fingers deeper. Van tugged on one of Julia’s hard nipples and shivered as Julia’s hands caressed her roughly under her T-shirt. They kissed, their tongues repeating the rhythm of Van’s thrusts into her, until Julia convulsed with a sharp cry.
Obviously the sex was good, but Van thought it could be even better, at least for herself, if she could just gain some control. So she hatched a plan.
Early the following week, she bought a new suit—at a men’s store, of course. It was charcoal, of the finest summer wool and, although it wasn’t custom-tailored, it fit her slim androgynous lines perfectly. Elegant. Then she had her hair cut very short, so close to her head that not the slightest trace of curl remained.
That Friday, she was supposed to pick Julia up at the strip club after her second show and as usual, spend the night. Van decided she would arrive early this time and actually watch Julia perform. She wanted to know her new lover better, even if it meant seeing Julia exposing her body to strangers.
Van dressed carefully. To get the wet look she liked, she applied some gel to her buzzed hair still damp from the shower. A small gold circle glinted in one ear. Under her new jacket, she had on a black silk shirt, short sleeved and unbuttoned at the collar. On her feet, she wore ankle-high boots of satiny-smooth black leather.
By the time she arrived at the club, a knot of nervous anticipation had formed in her stomach. She had never been inside the Plaza Gentlemen’s Club (written discreetly on the outside in blue neon script). There were two more signs, both framed in lights but not too garish, considering: EXOTIC DANCERS / EVERY NIGHT AND ROXY ROCKS / EVERY WEEKEND.
Roxy was Julia’s stage name. She had her own sign because she was the house dancer—the best performer and the most popular. To keep her there, the club paid her a salary. According to Julia, this was unusual. Normally the strippers at this club made their money only from tips and from private dancing in the Champagne Room. Roxy did take tips but didn’t do private dancing. There was no public lap dancing here. For that, you had to go to a dive of a strip club a couple of blocks away, the sort of place where they had hung grungy signs with stuck-on red and black letters, like OIL WRESTLING / XXX STYLE.
Van entered the Plaza. After paying the cover, she stood for a moment looking into the bar, enjoying the loud dance music. A handsome, muscular bouncer looked her up and down boldly, eyebrows raised in appreciation.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “There’s still an empty table near the stage.”
“Thanks. I see it.” Van almost laughed out loud as he did a double take at the timbre of her voice. He looked a little disappointed, but grinned widely.
“Nice suit,” he said.
Van was relieved that her table wasn’t very close to the stage, and separated from the action by another table. As soon as she sat down, a waitress in a black bunny costume without the tail and ears but showing lots of cleavage and bare cheeks, took her order for a double scotch.
She looked around curiously at the large, cabaret setting as she sipped her drink. The floor lighting was muted, provided mostly by a dim lamp on each small table and by light reflected from the thrust stage jutting into the room. She knew Roxy wouldn’t be able to see her from the stage. It was bright, with spotlights trained on two wild-haired dancers who were down to fluorescent lime and orange thongs. They took turns undulating against the pole and each other to a techno beat. Van hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but she did, admiring their supple naked bodies, and relieved that neither of them was Roxy.