In my first job as an agency creative director, when I was 38, my right-hand man, was a woman -- a lesbian producer. We became very close friends.
She was a triathlete, a home brewer, well educated, and incredibly sarcastic. She was also very bright and hilariously funny. We were both writing screenplays in our spare time. We became close friends.
We also became drinking buddies. We shared a love of martinis. And we were both snobs about them: Gin, not vodka. Shaken, not stirred. Olives, not twists. And 20 seconds in the shaker before straining. Other than that we were not particular about how they were made.
We alternated who would buy, and it was her turn to pick up the tab. We typically had just one and talked about work, politics or whatever we were writing, and then called it a night. We were close and comfortable enough to discuss anything and make fun of each other. She often said, "you're just a big dyke" when I said something "sensitive". I took that as a compliment.
When we parted ways, she normally said, "Good night," followed by bitch, twat or cunt depending on her mood. I invariably responded with one of an array of clichés such as, "You are what you eat." Or, "It takes one, to know one." Or, "See you next Tuesday," and so on.
That night she said, "I've had a tough couple of weeks." Then she added, "Care to have another martini?" rather wistfully.
She did not provide details, so we continued talking inanely about our writing. Then she ordered a third round without asking if I wanted one. As it turned out, she had broken up with her long-time girlfriend several months earlier and was just now feeling the full impact of it.
"What's the exact problem?" I asked.
"To be very blunt, I am so horny I can't concentrate."
I had known her for a couple of years and we drank and chatted often, but we never talked about sex other than once long before when she confided that she was "asexual". When I asked her what she meant by that, she explained that although she was attracted only to women, she really didn't have much interest in sex. She performed only when her partners initiated it, or more accurately only when they complained about not having sex often enough.
I did not pursue that topic any further at the time. It made me uncomfortable, seemed like none of my business, and it was completely incomprehensible to me. Like someone telling me they didn't care for ice cream on a hot summer day.
Over the years, I had stopped thinking of her as a woman. She was just my drinking buddy. Another writer. But at that moment, I suddenly looked at her as a sexual object. She was hot. Admittedly horny. And suddenly so was I.
I said bluntly, "So why don't you just find some "hot twat" wherever you carpet munchers find each another, take her home and ravage her?" (That was the sort of irreverent way we spoke to one another.)
Because she was athletically buffed, confident, and not traditionally "feminine" I had always assumed that she was a "top" -- a dom with more girlie lovers. Then I gave the idea no further thought. That view was shattered by what she said next.
"Truth be told, I don't really like eating pussy," she said matter-of-factly. "I am kind of a 'pillow princess'. I enjoy being eaten, but I reciprocate mostly out of obligation. And I have to force myself to go down first, because after I cum, I just want to enjoy the throbbing afterglow of a big dildo in my pussy as I fall asleep. Preferably alone."
I was dumbfounded. I suppose my silence and expression made my shock and confusion evident. So, she continued explaining herself, "Honestly, I never cared much for any of it really. I felt like I could live my whole life without sex. But right now... I am sex crazed. I want to cum so badly that I can't think straight."
I still said nothing. So she continued, "Maybe it is a hormone thing. I don't know. But this whore really needs to moan."
She smiled widely at her own bad pun, hoping to lighten the mood with an inappropriate sardonic remark. At that moment the waitress arrived with our third round.
I decided it was time to be bold. I told the waitress to bring me the tab.
A little surprised, she said, "Are you leaving? Did I share too much? It is my turn to buy."
I said, "No. But I was thinking... perhaps I can help you. You live just a few blocks away. I know you must have a bottle of gin. How about we have that third round at your house. Then, perhaps I can provide some sweet relief for the pillow princess. I will eat you. No reciprocation expected."
Now she was dumbfounded, and mumbled her response, "I don't think that's a good idea..."
I interrupted, "I just want to help out a friend, and if you don't want to be eaten, the least I can do is pay for drinks and prevent moans of the wrong kind when you see the bill. She laughed and said nothing more.
