So I missed her when I had to go out without her. Plus, people looked at me different when I was with Storm—not like, “You poor, pathetic crip, you’re stuck in that chair”—but like, “Wow, how come you got that hottie when you can’t even dance?” In fact, the only times I screwed around with other girls was when I was pissed at Stormy for not being with me. She could’ve blown off work more. I mean, what’s more important—being with the person you love or hauling drinks to dicks in suits? I did it because I missed her, which kind of made it like a tribute to her, but she never got that.
My friends didn’t get it either. That was another slap in the face. Sully was like, “Treat her right or you’re gonna lose her. And I’ll be happy to pick up the pieces, ’cause she is one fine piece….” It wasn’t funny the first time, but Sully’s one of those dykes who doesn’t get they’re doing the same stupid shit over and over.
LJ acted like I was some asshole who didn’t love Stormy, saying I was “only hurting myself and Stormy with my compulsive dishonesty.” That’s 12-step cult talk, which is bullshit because half the time when I didn’t answer Stormy’s questions, it was ’cause I didn’t know where I’d been or who I was with anyway.
Normally if another butch took my girl’s side, like LJ and Sully did, I’d have seriously questioned their loyalties. But I let it slide ’cause I could see what was going on: they were hot for Stormy. No surprise—she’s gorgeous, like Naya Rivera, crazy-long legs and all. Six feet in heels, with a round, beautiful ass that matches her round, beautiful breasts. You’d think dykes would be throwing themselves at her feet, right? Nope. People are afraid of someone that good-looking. They think, “She’s totally out of my league. If I gave her my number she’d crush me like a bug.”
But I could tell right off that Stormy had no idea how hot she was. I just turned on the old gentleman-dyke charm and told her she was beautiful—which was easy ’cause it’s true—and she was all blushing, which just made her cuter. Then I asked her all about herself, ’cause everyone likes that. Also, she seemed curious about the whole crip thing. I’m not crazy about that, but I’ll use it to get laid.
Not to brag, but you know how the first time with someone usually isn’t that great? With Stormy it was great every time. Even though we were both kinda plastered I remember our first time. That’s how good it was. When I got her home she saw my waterbed, squealed, pulled off her top and jumped on, writhing and giggling. The waterbed’s a medical necessity for me, but it would’ve been worth it for Storm’s reaction! I yanked down her bra just enough to pull out those gorgeous big boobs. She looked incredibly hot—her tits hanging out over this purple lace bra. I was throbbing.
“Scooch back and lay down,” I whispered, moving next to her. I glided my hands up and down her sides, barely touching her. She got all shivery, breathing hard, and then I just—again, really lightly—sucked on one of her nipples and she, like, melted right into the bed, going “Ohhhhh,” really deep and throaty. I played with both her tits a long time—till she was grinding her hips, whimpering and begging, “Joan, please, please touch me.” Her brown eyes were huge and liquidy.
“But I am touching you,” I said, real cool, thrumming her nipples.
After a few more pleases I hiked up her skirt and pressed my palm against her crotch. She was burning, her panties soaked. She’d try to grind against my hand, and I’d inch it away each time. Then I’d suck her tits again and she’d moan and whimper louder.
I waited till she was humping the bed, twining herself around me, begging nonstop, “Joan, fuck me, fuck me, please.”
Then I slid in one finger and she melted again, “Ohhhh, god.”
But once I started to move in her, she was bucking and screaming. I got in another two before she came—tensed up and twisted around me, digging her nails into my back, her cunt clamped onto my hand till she went limp.
It was that good every time. And she was no pillow princess. She gave as good as she got. Not that I’d let her inside me, but sometimes she’d slide her hand under my cock, inside the harness. Before Stormy, I thought a femme with long nails was a stone bottom, but she had this way of really lightly laying a finger on my clit so I didn’t even feel the nail and touching me just right. Because she was so femme, it felt like she was playing with my dick, so I could relax and let her do me. She could just leave her finger on my clit, and she’d make tiny circles over and over. I tried not to moan or move, but I couldn’t help it. She brought me there every time. Damn, she was good.
I’m not completely shallow; besides the great sex, she really was a good person—or I thought she was. When we weren’t fighting, Stormy was really sweet. Like, if I was having a bad day, she’d put hot packs on my joints (which didn’t help the pain, but it felt nice) and read to me, even stupid shit like People or TV Guide. She always brought extra smokes or beer for everyone when my friends were over. So, when they gave me a hard time about two-timing Storm, I sorta understood: they saw how great she was with them. However—and this is a big however—they did not see the crap she put me through personally.
For instance, if she found out that I’d fooled around, even if it was just some titty and kissing in the john, I’d have to “process” with her. That is a major problem with being a lesbian. “Processing” was Stormy’s code for making me talk about shit we should’ve left alone. She’d go on and on about “sharing our feelings” and “letting each other in.” But if I did really tell her how I was feeling, she’d get mad.
Like once, I spent the weekend with this dyke I met doing shooters. I came home and Stormy was out of her mind because I “disappeared” for two days without calling or texting. It was ridiculous! The woman I crashed with was a butch, so obviously nothing happened. Even plowed, there are certain lines I do not cross. It’s not natural. I love my friends, but to do them, or worse, to let them do me? I’d rather fuck a drag queen. (Some drag queens are hot.)
But Stormy’s ranting away about how it’s not about cheating, it’s how worried she was, and then she launches into her usual thing about “communication” and blah blah fucking blah. I can’t tell you exactly what she said till suddenly she grabbed my hand and said, “Joan, tell me what you’re feeling, right now,” and I was so taken by surprise that I told her: “I was feeling bored and wondering what was on pay-per-view.”
You woulda thought I shot her dog! She was screaming and crying how she’s trying so hard and why is she going through all this if I won’t try, too? She needs me to try too if this is gonna work. I took her hand and told her that was exactly the problem: She didn’t have to try so hard. If she’d just relax like me, everything would be fine. “That’s why I keep my mouth shut,” I told her, “because when I talk it only causes problems for us.” I was hoping she’d really get it this time. It hurt me to see her so upset ’cause I loved her.