Majorly revised. It has an ending now, for one thing. I hope readers like it more. Sorry wasn't better from the start
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On Being Told I Am Not Interesting
The stupid photographer said I was not
interesting
. Stupid jerk. So superior and snooty.
I am over six feet tall, I have blonde hair down to the middle of my back and a good figure. How could he say I was not interesting? I tossed my bag down onto the couch and stalked the apartment, feeling like I needed to do something and not knowing what. I don't drink. I don't smoke. There was nothing for me to do that I had seen other people do to deal with their anger, and I sure as heck was not going to break anything.
I don't cuss either. Did cussing make girls interesting? I had never thought so, and I spent a lot of time with girls. From the time I was a young teen, I knew I was a lesbian. That is interesting, isn't it? I could tell him about the 127 girls; then he wouldn't think I wasn't interesting. Or maybe he would. Tall blonde lesbians probably floated out of his studio everyday. That was interesting, I thought. I plopped on the couch and felt sorry for myself as I pulled a pillow to my chest and pouted. What did he know?
Bill was not coming over. He was out playing in some honky tonk later. He expected me to join him, but I just wasn't sure I could get myself together to be the adoring girlfriend. Yes, girlfriend. After nine years of dedicated homosexuality, I had a boyfriend. None of my old friends could believe it. My parents couldn't believe it. I met him when he joined in with some friends of mine that I'd gone out to see play music. He was just sitting in, so he and talked at the bar while he waited. He is about my dad's age. We have nothing in common. But he made me laugh like no man ever did before, and only a few women have. He said something charming about not being the kind of musician girls threw their panties to when I asked him about it. I told him I would, if I liked him. I already liked him.
While he was getting set up to play, I went to the ladies room and took of my thong. It was a tiny little thing that I really liked, it was so pretty. In the middle of his second song, I edged my way into the crowd at the edge of the dance floor and tossed it at him. It went about five feet and fell among the dancers. He didn't even see. Thongs are not aerodynamic. But I told him about it after, and in the lacy white dress I was wearing, it was not hard to prove to him that I wasn't wearing any panties any longer. He already knew I wasn't wearing a bra because he had been staring at my boobs all night. Well, not staring, but looking when he had the chance. He was trying to tell if he really could see my areolea through the material or not. We talked about it later. Surely that is interesting, isn't it?
What if I told about that photographer of Bill's taking me home and fucking me so I couldn't walk?
What was I doing going to a photographer anyway? I have skills. I have talents. I don't need to take my clothes off to make money. Well, actually, I needed to make money. I haven't had a job in six months. And taking one's clothes off in front of a camera for money runs in my family. My grandmother did cheesecake and naturist magazines in the 50s and 60s. My mother did a major men's magazine in the 70s. Her sister, my aunt, did a couple of porn movies back then too.
I wished Bill was home so I could talk to him and feel interesting. I wished Veronique, my darling lover who broke my heart hadn't moved to Ireland. I wished she hadn't broken my heart too. I wished the other 126 girls would come over.
Having sex with 127 girls should be of interest to someone. But whom? Does that seem like a lot? I'm 23. Is that a lot? I just had fun in college.
I made a rotten dinner for myself and wished Bill were home. I did three guys before Bill. One a few years older than me, who took my virginity, such as it was. And two other older guys. Lots older than me. I wished one of the two them would come over and find me interesting. And bring his wife or significant other.
I knew what I needed when that desire occurred to me. A girl. A woman. Someone without a penis. I love Bill and all. I am pretty sure. But nine years of lesbianism can't fade away after one year of monogamous heterosexuality, can it? I took a shower, dressed to be looked at and headed out the door for Christie's.
Gol, a year away and I felt like I didn't know the place or anyone in it. I used to come often enough to be a regular, from the time I moved to Nevada. It was eerie. After awhile, I saw one or two women I recognized as people I had seen there before. And the bartender remembered me because I didn't drink. She smiled at me, and I took my soft drink and wandered over to the dance floor. I like dancing, but I am not good at it. Bill is a great western swing dancer, but I still haven't picked it up well. All elbows and knees. Not interesting. There were some pretty women on the floor, and I watched one in particular until I felt a presence at my side. I was holding my drink in my left hand and the straw in my right as I took a sip and I looked sideways at her between my fingers and the straw and my hair that was falling in my face.
She was nearly as tall as me, which is unusual enough. It wasn't that that made me gasp though. She oozed power. Simply, she was the most confident person I had ever met, and I hadn't even met her yet.
"I could get her for you, if you want her," she said. I looked at the dancing woman I had been watching, then back at the power woman.
"If I want her, I can get her for myself," I told her. I can be pretty confident myself when not lolling in self-loathing because I am not interesting.
Power woman laughed softly. "It is a good thing you don't really want her then, is it not?" she whispered and slid her arm around my waist. Her scent was alluring, even through the smoke and other smells in the room. "My name is Rustina," she said, not really whispering, but not speaking out loud either. She pronounced it Roos-tina, in a European sounding way. I tried saying it to myself, but in my head it sounded like I was an American girl trying to sound like a European girl. I went to boarding school in Switzerland and speak French and German fluently, but Roos-tina surrounded by hard American vowels sounded silly.
"Jenifer," I told her and rolled my hips under her arm, letting her know I didn't mind it being there.
I have been with two older women, but it was when I was also doing the older guys. I had never just been to bed with a woman much older on my own age. I decided it was going to be interesting. Power woman was so sure of herself, she had to know a thing or two. I lowered my drink and looked at her. She had silver hair that was cut just below her shoulders and blue eyes that were as hard as diamonds.
"I want you to do something for me, Jenifer," she said, her voice still at that low pitch. "I want you to lower the top of your dress."
"Right here?"
"Of course. What fun would it be otherwise?"
"They'll throw me out."
Her laugh was like water in a rapid. "I do not think so."
I believed her. "What if I don't want to do that?"
Her arm moved and her hand slipped down to my bottom. It moved as she caressed me gently. I liked having her hand there. "What you want doesn't matter."
"A photographer I posed nude for today told me I was not interesting," I told her. It felt nice to confide in someone, even a stranger.
"I will hold your drink for you." She took it without waiting for my permission.
"You'll have to unzip me," I told her, turning my back to her. Her hand rose from my bottom and sure fingers nudged the zipper tab down. I was wearing another white dress, but this one was short, sleeveless, and form-fitting. I reached up with both hands, draping my hair over my chest, and eased the shoulder straps down my arms, feeling my full breasts swaying as the tight material fell away and bunched at my waist. I turned to her and took back my glass.
Rustina laughed again in that water pouring over rocks way. "I was not sure if you were the one," she said, "but it seems you are."
"What one?" I asked, feigning innocence. I haven't been innocent in this millennium. "I'm just a girl who was told she was not interesting naked, compounding that problem by standing around in a lesbian bar with my boobs hanging out. See? No one even cares. No one has even noticed."
"True enough," power woman agreed, turning to smile at the women passing in front of us who were looking at my hair covered breasts. "What does matter is that I have bent you to my will."
I turned to look at her sideways, drawing back so I could look down my nose at her. "Oh? And where was I when this happened?"
More water pouring over rocks sounds slipped out of her. "You are standing on the edge of the dance floor with your dress bunched at your waist while every woman here is wishing you would move your hair. And you do this simply because I told you to do so."
"Do you think this is the first time I have taken off my top in a bar? It was my turn to laugh.
"Probably not. But this is the first time you have done so because I told you to do so."
I lifted the straw with my right hand again and sucked up more diet Coke. "Which 'one'?" I returned to her earlier comment.
Rustina's hand on my bottom moved, caressing me once more, teasing me. "Tell me, Jenifer, have you ever been whipped?
I swayed my shoulders to signify no. My breasts moved under my hair.
"I think you will like it quite a lot. I shall bind you first, as you will not be able to control yourself if I do not. Not without experience. And I shall not be harsh, merely cruel." Her fingers moved off my bottom and up my back, onto my bare skin, where her nails grazed lightly.
"What makes you think I will let you whip me, Rustina." I made myself say it correctly.
"What makes you think you have a choice, Jenifer?"
I'd been tied up before and liked it. And Bill has these nipple jewelry things he likes to press onto me. They are really fun. He wants me to get my nipples pierced, but I told him to pierce his own darned nipples first, and we would talk about it. So far, he hasn't, and I am glad. More because a middle-aged man with pierced nipples would be more silly than that I would have to go through with it myself.
Being whipped would be interesting, I thought. But would it make me interesting? In my darkest fantasies, I had allowed it. In cyber play, I had flirted with it. Being whipped. I was attracted to her. She offered me fulfillment of that darkness. Of course I was going to let her. I was wet as soon as she said it.
"You aren't even going to offer to buy me a drink?" I asked coyly?
"You are drinking a soft drink."
