The most important thing for you to understand before telling you of the following incidents is—I am straight.
I have loved men all my life. I have never even thought—much less fantasized—about a relationship with another woman. Without understanding this, my story becomes commonplace, not worth the telling.
I’d been married a year at the time, to a wonderful young man whom I was in love with. Andy loved me in return; anything I asked for he provided. He had pursued me for a number of years, and finally I consented to marry him after he had asked for the third time. I was 23 at the time. I only held my husband off for so long due to wanting to be sure he was the one, not from disinterest.
In high school, boys had always pursued me. The title “Class Beauty” was mine in both High school and college. I had also served in both as homecoming queen. My looks had always gotten me attention—from men.
Then Vanessa Johnson came into my life as I began work at a firm in Silicon Valley.
Where I was blonde and blue eyed, Vanessa was black and brown eyed. I stood 5’7”; Vanessa was nearly 6’1”. I was slender but busty; Vanessa was slender but wiry, well muscled.. I was 23; Vanessa was 33. I was very white; Vanessa was coal black. I was just a coordinator; Vanessa was a VP.
I had first noticed her one day while making copies on a hallway copier. She was holding a meeting in a glass encased conference room across the way. I noticed that as she spoke to her subordinates in the conference room her eyes kept coming back to me at the copier outside.
I probably would never have thought a thing about it except when our eyes met... There was a look, hard to define, but definitely there. It was a look of lust...sexy, deep, and serious. Amazing, how she could carry on the meeting, while exchanging these looks with me at the copier outside. But Vanessa did just that. As our eyes would meet, she’d let hers drop, looking me over in a very deliberate and obvious way.
This occurred not once but several times as I found myself looking back over at her, frankly curious, wondering, “Could this really be happening? Is this really what I think it is? Am I misunderstanding this woman’s stare?”
As I continued to copy the papers, I found my hands trembling slightly. I had no idea why at that point, only that this woman was having some strange effect on me. I quickly finished and started to leave. As I did, I looked toward the meeting room once more and saw her again looking me over, this time with a slight smile playing on her lips.
After I proceeded down the hall, against my better judgment, I turned to look, yet again—I just wanted to see if she was still looking. When I did, sure enough, she was looking out of the glass room, her back to the other employees, watching me depart down the hallway.
When Vanessa saw me turn and look back, giving away my interest, she began laughing quietly, her shoulders jiggling. I felt embarrassed, young and naive. I turned away quickly and continued down the hallway, but as I did, I felt my hips sway slightly more than usual. I could feel her eyes on me. And I felt very sexy...
In the days that followed, I found myself thinking about Vanessa Johnson more often than I wanted to. Her short hair (it was cut close-cropped, like a man’s), her large brown eyes, and the clothing she wore. Often Vanessa would wear knee high boots and tight jeans, or even stretch pants that outlined every facet of her tall lean body. Her ass was prominent and well muscled, I’m sure she must have been an athlete at one time. Her legs were very, very long; very slender; and, yet, very well toned, with highly defined muscle.
Whenever we passed in the hall, her eyes would lock on mine. Our look, even in passing down the hallway, was always deep. I often felt embarrassed, just after our eyes would meet in their mutual gaze, and would look away, or avert my eyes to the floor. After getting back to my desk, I would find myself flushed red—just by passing her, and being appraised under her penetrating brown eyes.
Most troubling was one day, shortly after our first encounter—just after passing her—I found myself aroused. We’d passed in the hall, and in front of a co-worker whom she was walking with, she gave me her usual once-over and said, “Leasa, you look lovely as usual today.”
“Th- Thank you, Ms. Johnson,” was all I could squeak out.
When I went to the ladies room later that day, I was surprised to find my panty hose very moist. Well...actually, I was wet. Very wet, I’m ashamed to say. Vanessa had me still trembling for her long after the casual encounter had taken place. It was humiliating, but I found myself using my fingers in the woman’s room cubicle to relieve this terrible tension Vanessa had left me with.
I didn’t know what to think about my reaction to this woman, so I did what I have always done about things I don’t understand—better still, things I don’t want to understand: I just blocked it out and refused to think about it.
But my thoughts about Vanessa Johnson would not go away. As I lay in bed next to my husband, visions of Vanessa would keep recurring: her dark eyes, jet-black skin, and high cheekbones. Her thick, beautiful black lips. I felt tortured with thoughts of a woman that I couldn’t admit I found beautiful...and sexy. Terribly, terribly sexy.
With my husband snoring, I found myself using my fingers to relieve these feelings growing in me for another woman. Feelings that frightened me.
I wasn’t lesbian! I knew that for sure. But inside I was quite sure she was. So then, why was my this damn body of mine betraying me and responding so wantonly to her?
I’d close my eyes and see her beautiful, black face. I fantasized what it might be like to kiss her full thick lips, to lick them, and to slip my tongue between them.
I lay in bed wondering, perhaps hoping, “Is Vanessa lying in her bed now, thinking of me like I am of her?”
