I know why I did it. I wanted to shock her, maybe disgust her a little; push her buttons ... and envelope. That's why I sat down beside her and said, "You have bigger breasts than I do," and I squeezed one of hers, hard, through the heavy cotton nightie that stopped mid-thigh. Instinctively, she turned away, trying to pull her breast from my fingers so I let it go and went to bed.
But I'm not being entirely honest. There were other reasons why I wanted to feel her breast, a lot of them, all of them a little troubling to me. Let me explain them, in no particular order.
One. She seemed to carry her breasts really low, like a matron, as if pulling them up would result in too much volume. I wanted the satisfaction of confirming that her boobs were the saggy type, far more saggy than mine. I might have been right.
Two. I wanted to turn our relationship to a more sexual direction. We were on a two week car trip across the country, with my father and mother in the front seat. Lucy and I were enrolled in the same west coast college; my parents looked on the drive as a kind of 'rite of passage:' some bonding time before I had to knuckle down and get serious about my life. Lucy is my cousin, my mother's sister's child — and a casual friend since we were babies. At the last moment she decided to join us. So, my thinking was that because we were going to share a hotel room for about two weeks (my dad had some business to conduct along the way), our time together would be a great opportunity to find out more about her ... and myself.
Three — my greatest motivation. I wanted to find out what the touch of her breast would do to me. I'm pretty sure I'm a lesbian. Why only pretty sure? Because I've had no sexual experience of any kind. None. Except for the rape, so when I touched Lucy's breast, I was really concentrating on what affect it would have on me; what it would mean to me and that's what I was processing as I lay on my bed in the hotel room — with my fingers in my pussy.
I've been masturbating on and off for years, but never very well, mainly because I've never got off from my imaginations of a man's kiss or touch and the thought of a guy shoving his pole in me made me shudder. But the thought of girls didn't do much for me either, mainly because, like everyone else on the planet, I'd been taught that lewd thoughts about the same sex is a taboo, so at 19 I have been pretty much a sexual hermit and I'm now in big need of a coming-out party. I was determined Lucy was going to be that party.
That's one of the reasons I didn't bother disguising what I was doing in the bed next to hers. Even Lucy, who I suspected knows less about sex than I do, couldn't miss what I was doing to myself but just in case I thrashed at my fingers more vigorously than usual and I let out the odd moan, which to my ears I hadn't yet perfected. When my orgasm finally came, it was brief, superficial and no help in satisfying my burning curiosity as to whether or not I'm a lesbian. But the touch of her breast still lingered on my sticky fingers and as I slipped into sleep I knew my challenge for tomorrow would be to feel her breast unencumbered by her thick nightie.
So, how does one girl go about feeling another girl's bare tits? There are probably countless approaches I could have used but I chose the one I knew best: to be brazen. I've been pushing Lucy around since we got out of the cradle so my direct approach wasn't foreign to either of us.
As I had done the previous night, I sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, but this time I put my arm around her back with my hand gripping her shoulder while I quickly brought my other hand up under her nightie in a full-frontal grope and with a grip on her breast I tried to hold her tight but she was shruggling, protesting and trying to twist away so I forced her onto her back where I concentrated on her breast, feeling the sharp sexual jolt between my legs.
"For God's sake, Janet, what on earth are you doing?" The panic in her eyes and voice would have been comical had I not known the feeling myself.
"Just lie still for a moment, I just want to feel your breast." But my words had no effect, she continued to struggle so with my hand still squeezing her tit I leaned on her, pressing my weight into her. "I just want to feel your tit for God's sake. What's the big deal?" But it was hard to get much sensation from my fingers because my own rib cage was pressing on the hand that was pressing her breast. "Just stay still for a moment, just a moment. I just want to feel you. I have a reason. A good one. I'll tell you about it when I'm done." This didn't make her relax but she did stop struggling so I took my weight off my hand, cupped her breast with my palm, feeling her sticky heat for a full minute and feeling the throbbing between my legs and before I let her loose I vowed that my next move, tomorrow, would be to suck her.
I was back on my bed again, and again, like last night, with my fingers in me when I said, "I was at a friend's place two months ago. At a party. I was leaving, went to a bedroom to get my coat but when I did someone slammed the door shut, pushed me onto the bed, pulled up my sweater and bra and quickly sucked both my breasts, then my panties were off and I felt a face pressed between my legs. I was struggling, of course, but I was pinned at the hips and when it was over she got up threw my panties at me and left. She was younger than me and smaller." I hesitated, not for effect but because I wanted to remember the moment. "It scared the life out of me. I was shaking all the way home. I thought of calling someone, but what could I say?" I pushed my fingers deeper into me and spread my cream against my walls. "The next morning I found out that the panties she had thrown at me and I had put in my purse weren't mine. They were hers." I hesitated, this time for impact. "I threw them in the garbage ... and about an hour later pulled them out again. They are yellow, nylon, cheap. On the third day when all the fragrance was gone I washed the last of her away and when I did I knew I wanted her to do it to me again. That's when I began to see myself as a lesbian. That's why I held your breast last night and tonight: I wanted to know what the feeling would do to me." I deliberately left it there, then I added, hoping that I was tantalizing her, "Sorry. I just had to know."
Maybe it was because as I spoke the words I was obviously masturbating, but she didn't say anything, not until the next morning at breakfast after I asked her, "Did I gross you out?" Though we had been up for an hour, showering and getting ready for the day, we hadn't spoken.
"Are you a lesbian?" She didn't take her eyes off her butter-less toast.
"I don't know," I said, trying to sound cheerful, "I think so ... probably, maybe, but I don't know for sure." That's when it hit me: "Can you do me a favour?"
"A favour?" She was looking up at me now, totally perplexed and really nervous.
And then it all seemed so blissfully clear; there was absolutely no way she could refuse. So I took my time, almost savouring my words. I told her about how 'troubling' the 'rape' had been to me and how it had opened up so many unanswered questions about my own sexual identity. Then I told her about my greatest fear: I was going to college and I didn't even know who I was. "I mean, who do I date? Men or woman? I don't even know. Shouldn't I at least know that before I step on campus?" Then I played the card that I thought would be the clincher: her own sexual ambivalence. I knew she had to be at least as sexually confused as I was, probably a lot more: though she had a good body, all the vibes she put out where entirely sexless. "I mean, how lucky are you? You know who you are, you know how you feel, sexually, that's why I think I can turn to you." I gave her my most vulnerable, pleading look. "Would you let me, you know, sort of learn about my sexuality by ... ah, looking at you, ... touching you?"
Then I changed the subject. I didn't care about her response. I only wanted her to know why I would be taking her clothes off tonight. And anyway, with her jaw sagging as it was, she didn't look like she was in any condition to speak
I had gotten to her, that couldn't have been more obvious, even my mother, who was absolutely clueless about anyone else's feeling, noticed it when she joined us a little later. "Is something the matter, Lucy? You look almost like ... you're stricken."
Terrified was more like it; I could see it building all day: she was increasingly edgy, stiff, distracted — in short, she was a mess. I could only imagine what was going on in her mind. But I knew what was going on inside mine: now that I had laid out a plausible excuse, my initial thoughts were that at the first chance I would tear Lucy's clothes off and ravage her, that's what I wanted to do and it wouldn't have been too far out of character to do it; I had been more or less bossing her around for years. But I'm not an absolutely insensitive jerk. I liked Lucy, sort of, and as I thought about her — and believe me that's what I was doing all day — it began to occur to me that SHE could get something out of this experience, too, something really useful to help her come to terms with her own sexuality. I didn't think she was gay but at least after I had finished with her she would know a little more about her body, and maybe even a little of what she liked done to it, never mind that it would be by another girl. So, with my mindset shifted to include a constructive experience for both of us, I encouraged her to eat up, happy that my parents, who were out on a business evening, couldn't see their daughter and niece heading to bed — at 7:52.
But we weren't both heading upstairs with the same enthusiasm. I felt like I was herding Lucy and she couldn't have been more miserable. She tried to speak in the elevator but I think her mouth was too dry for words and I had to take her arm in the hallway, otherwise it may have taken her an hour to walk the fifty feet or so to our door. And I didn't let her go when I swiped the card, either; I was afraid she might bolt.
