I'm different from other girls and I know it. I don't like the term lesbian, and don't think of myself that way, although I exclusively desire women. But I don't fit into any of the categories people are used to. I don't like labels. I want to be seen as an individual, as myself, as Heather.
I'm quite feminine to begin with. I have delicate ankles and feet, and I take pleasure from their shape when I sit in a cafe in a skirt, legs crossed, thinking how cute my little red flats are. I'm petite, and like being this way. I have shoulder-length brown hair, and tan well in the summer. My nose is pointy and my face is pretty and I know I'm attractive to men, although I don't give them the time of day.
I don't like rebuffing men, I just see through them because they don't interest me at all. I despise machismo, and I can't be friends with people who are enormous and talk mainly about sports. I don't have any male friends at all. Maybe that's sexist of me to be closed to one of the genders, but I don't care. Men are boring, coarse, arrogant, hairy, and most importantly to me, don't have sufficient tenderness. Sure there are kind, decent men. But I don't care about them either. I never claimed to be a person of total fairness.
I have many interests, including literature, which I'm studying at school (I'm still in college, in my junior year, but I'm mature for my age). I also like art and design in many forms, and philosophy. Politics is boring, and science is tedious and unexciting. Literature, poetry, art, these are my things.
And mainly, above all else, I think about women. I think about their personalities, about their movements and their shapes and the way they carry themselves. I think about their minds, and about their feelings, and about their sense of style. And I think about their hidden delicate parts, and how exciting it would be to pleasure them. Each attractive girl is a special treasure to me, with so many unique elements to her mind and her body, waiting to be explored and appreciated.
Some have said that my mind works more like that of a guy, but I reject that idea. Just because my sexual interests are focused and intense, and I'm assertive, doesn't make me less female. There is room in this world for a girl like me.
I know I'm something of a narcissist, but I don't hold that against myself. I like being different from other women. It thrills me in a way I can't describe when I show a pretty girl my lust for her, and whisper in her ear that I'd like to taste her, and slowly, luxuriously bring her to orgasm. I like watching her struggle to understand what this means, putting together the idea of this pretty little thing in front of them who they thought they were making friends with, and the lewd things I gently and softly tell them I'd like to do.
I'm not the aggressive butch or the confusing androgynous lesbian they've come across in Gino's Nut House or some other trashy place. Nor am I the lipstick lesbian who wants to hold hands and goes down on them out of a sense of duty, because that's what couples do. Maybe I don't even have the psychology of lesbians right. I haven't spent much time thinking about it. I only care about my own uniqueness, and my own sexuality, and how hot it is to reveal myself to women and to see my lust through to its conclusion.
There was this girl Austen I met through a friend. She was taller than me by a couple inches, which is just how I like it. I need to be the more petite one for my fantasies to work. She had very long, straight, light brown hair which she wore loose. Her breasts were quite small, but that didn't matter very much to me. Better breasts too small than too big in my world. But the curves of her legs and ass, wow, and the beauty of her face. She was stunning, the kind of fresh, radiant beauty that wars were fought over, although her allure was more than just physical.
When we first shook hands I was struck by her big eyes, which were intelligent, and suggested a manipulative nature. The thought of her being naughty made my heart beat faster. She oozed sexual appeal. I thought that guys probably followed her around and she kissed some of them, and slept with a few of them, but then didn't want to see them anymore, and they fell apart and cried, and she didn't care and fluidly moved on, never looking back over her shoulder. She was someone facing the future full on, looking for adventure, experience, opportunity.
She looked at you directly when talking. She listened attentively. She made you feel special, showing interest in you fully, in a way only very young people tend to do (I told you I was wise beyond my years. You'll see how much insight I have into women).
I can't remember what we talked about that first time. I think I was telling her about a paper I had to write on Joseph Conrad, and she said something back. I just remember I could tell she was smart, very smart, that the wheels in her head spun fast, and this gave her power to add to her looks. I watched her lips move, and thought about her in the modern armchair in my room, with her knees up, me kissing my way up her inner thigh, slowly and lustfully, her wide-eyed and totally alert, present in the moment, about to experience something new.
As we were talking that first time, and I was riveted by her face and her cheer and her personality, I wondered what it was like inside her panties. I wondered what kind of aromas were there for me to discover, what kind of noises she would make as I slowly ran my tongue over her frilly parts. (If this kind of talk is gross to you, then you're not going to like my story. You can fuck off for all I care. I consider you a self-hating woman. Go back to your lame fantasies of Christian Grey. But if you like this, or aren't sure, then I'm going to take you somewhere).
For me a girl's smells, her tastes, her softness, the shape of her tender, private parts, these are the access to her soul. To experience these secrets of hers is to know her in the most special way. Once a girl said to me, "wow, you really like vaginas." That pissed me off. She didn't understand me at all. It's that I really like women. That's what it's about. It's not about body parts in and of themselves. Women's sex is access to their personalities, to their tenderness, to their unique identities.
I invited Austen to come adventure with me, to explore the Kimball Center, a large complex of housing, courtyards and gardens on the outskirts of campus. It was designed by a famous Mexican architect, and when you turned a corner you were surprised by a fountain lit with bright blue, or there in the garden was a large wall, painted kick-ass bright yellow. I found his use of color and shape extraordinary, and for me it was the perfect setting for a date. You could almost get lost moving through the different spaces.
Also I knew we would likely be alone there. Kimball was for grad students, the lamest category of people I've ever come across. They were in the lab or in their small rooms, projecting their boringness at their computer screens, ugly plastic sandals kicked onto a pile of dirty clothes in the corner.
Austen thought the idea of an architectural adventure was awesome and said so. I could see she was excited to meet me and thought we could be pals. I hoped I wouldn't end up offending her. But I knew I wanted her profoundly, and the thought of letting the chemistry between us develop, of trying to trigger and enflame her flirtatious sexual nature, maybe in spite of herself, was in my mind like a mild obsession, like a pot simmering on the back burner, apparently calm, but lift the lid and watch out for scalding vapor.
We went about a week later. As I pulled on my bright, golden yellow tights, I told myself I was calm and confident. I packed my little glass pipe in the striped shoulder bag I carry (this bag, my favorite one, is from Marimekko, a Finnish company that I find stylish and appropriately unique), and some super strong weed my roommate from Washington State was able to get ahold of.
My roommate's name is Sheila, she's Indian, and she knows that I like girls and is fine with it. She even knows how much I like girls, and is still fine with it. See, not all Indians are super conservative. I consider Sheila an ally, a friend, someone I can tell about my sexual adventures, and to be honest, I sometimes think my stories have an effect on her. I notice that her breathing becomes heavier, in a way that is barely noticeable, and although the most emotion she shows is periodically raising an eyebrow, her cup of coffee held calmly in both hands, I get the feeling she's putting effort into not visibly responding to my stories.
Austen and I met at the student union, and struck out across campus. She was dressed in tight jeans, with a generic button-up shirt, and a bright red vest that I liked. Overall her look was pretty conventional, but the bright color of her vest was nice. She also had on a rainbow hairband, a playful touch.
Bright color is a turn-on for me. There's nothing more exciting than when I finally get to pull down a pretty girl's jeans, or lift up her skirt, and her panties are bright blue, red, or violet. The color makes me want to take the edge of her panties, pull them slowly to one side as the girl is frozen with anticipation, never having been with another girl before, then move in to place a single kiss between her private lips, taking in her lovely girl perfume. Just writing these words excites me deeply. That's how much I love the build up to oral sex with a beautiful woman. I told you that I'm not like anyone you've met before. I warned you.
We talked rapid fire on the way there. Or mainly, she talked, and I asked questions. Although she was a good listener, I could see that she liked talking, that she was impressed with her own intelligence. I was fine with listening. She had a decisive Southern accent, what with being from the Florida panhandle. I found it sexy. I think she played up the accent in order to stand out here in California. The Southern belle, lifted out of her economically depressed rural setting by her ambition and book smarts.
I paid attention to her, but also just enjoyed being near her and taking in details. Her face was just so pretty to me. I could see that she was full of sensuality, although I thought that she had probably not had very much good sex in her life. Maybe she'd had a boyfriend from high school who was on the wresting team and had fucked her on weekends, but never gave her an orgasm. And certainly he never went down on her. A real loser.
