For a decade I’ve been talking about having sex with a woman. I finally found B who was crazy enough to do me. Granted, it was for an art project, but when a girl goes to town on yer ass with her dildo, the arrangements that got you there seem inconsequential.
We wore pretty pinks and purples to match. Even our dental dam was lavender.
After I tongue-bathed her thighs, she gave me a tour of her hardwood flooring (she’d removed the carpet). I chomped on that until my lipstick was gone, then slid two fingers inside her and rolled them around long enough to realize if I quickly separated them in a V-shape, she’d make popping sounds. I enjoyed this discovery far more than B did.
When she’d had enough of watching me be wide-eyed, poking her cervix, I slipped my hand out and noticed it was covered in some creamy white froth. “What’s that?” I asked her.
“It’s just a little bit of me,” she said. With one hand she wrapped her fingers through mine and with the other she wiped a bit of the stuff off and rubbed it against her leg. It disappeared like magic, absorbed into her skin.
Then she rolled off the bed. Left behind on my pink gingham comforter was a small pile of the same white frothy substance. A tiny mound, about a thimble’s worth. It had the look of whipping cream beaten just a little more than it should have been, but with a watery consistency. I asked again, “What is that?” feeling like I’d landed in a National Geographic magazine.
She scooped it up in a finger and rubbed it against her leg. It seemed to disappear into thin air. (All you virgin fags out there, you’ve never seen anything like it.) “It’s girl spooge,” B said, strapping on her dildo.
She asked if she could eat my ass and I said, “No.” She asked if I was sure, and I said, “Yeah, no.” Then she gave me a questioning look and I said, “No.”
After more negotiations, I decided to compromise and I let her finger me until I was ready to be fucked, which took, oh, a minute. She plowed my shaggy hole until we decided I should return the favour.
I didn’t feel much like a girl while fucking her, but then I had to wonder what a girl with a strap on felt like when drilling a babe? Not like a guy, surely, because that would defeat the purpose of being queer. Unless queer is about more than what genders are paired together. Or despite gender. At any rate I felt, well, if not original, then at the very least, re-made.
* Miss Cookie has a new favourite saying: I lost my virginity but kept the box it came in.
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