Some days, Lily got frustrated. Lily got frustrated from her constant battle with the world, which saw her repeatedly put in her box. It was the small things, when, for example, a well-meaning friend would ask her about her love life, and whether she was on the way to getting married, or having children. The constant expectations. The thing was, she liked to fuck girls.
Lily’s so-called ‘queer desire’, or otherwise her need for bodies of women was always there, and it helped her to cope. It was because the desire came from a place within her, within every molecule of her being, where identity just did not matter.
Sometimes, when she was alone, perhaps when she was doing something mundane like sitting on the train to work, it would just jump into her and she could fuck it by herself; or sometimes, it would jump into her, when she was in a room full of other people.
Lily reclined on a soft sofa, in Zara’s flat, surrounded by Zara’s flatmates. Her hand rested palm-down on the material of that sofa, which was made of a soft, worn, thick and wide corduroy. The gaps between each line or mound of cord were wide enough for her to fit her finger inside. It was like a miniature lavender field – like those bushy purple things you can see in the South of France in the summer. It was such a soft and pleasing feeling. She was intensely conscious of it, even though conversation was buzzing around her.
She could gently squeeze her fingers together, feeling the pressure of the softness of the battered and sat-upon thick cord on the sensitive skin between her fingers. As she gently squeezed, she felt that each mound was like a clitoris and labia – she had three such organs between the fingers of her right hand. As the thought occurred to her, she involuntarily gently pushed her palm down, as if against an opening – as if the sofa had an opening that desired the pressure of her palm. She inhaled quickly and deeply.
Zara was talking to Netta, and the conversation was animated, passionate and political. Demmi was sitting quietly by herself, taking an occasional drag on a cigarette, seemingly detached from the world. At least, she seemed this way, until Netta put her arms around Demmi suddenly and kissed her. They kissed each other, long lingering, with smiling lips, stopping only to laugh. Netta was completely full of joy, as Demmi came alive suddenly. Netta grabbed at Demmi’s breast, squeezing it playfully, kind of roughly.
At this point, Lily was working hard at maintaining complete eye contact with Zara – this was because not only did she enjoy looking in Zara’s eyes, and seeing a million tiny hands in the blacks of her pupils urgently grab for her, but also because she was trying very hard to not stare at Zara’s breasts, but also at Netta and Demmi.
There is was again – this opposite force, reinforcing the ancient lesson of being human – that she must not show her desire – especially to more than one person, especially to a room full of women, and especially as a woman, and especially as someone whose desire is already properly categorised as the kind where she must lay on her back, and think of England. “Lily” she shouted to herself silently, “get a grip, remember your shame.”
“You can fucking look, you know! No one’s gonna die!”, shouted Netta, who was smiling provocatively at Lily, while Demmi lay face-down across her lap, Netta caressing and grabbing handfuls of Demmi’s arse.
Lily smiled shyly, “I dunno what you mean… I was having a sensible conversation with Zara…” Lily broke into a giggle, feeling her face grow hot. Zara stood up and came and sat next to Lily, and put her hand on her thigh, in such a determined yet gentle way.
Zara’s touch was for its own sake – like the touch of that corduroy sofa. Zara’s touch just played along her thigh and felt gentle through Lily’s jeans – it was hypnotic, and Lily just stared, stupefied, at Zara’s playing hand. Demmi and Netta’s audacious display faded into the background, as Lily looked squarely at Zara’s breasts. “You like them? You wanna touch?” Zara said, quite loudly and oblivious to their audience in Netta and Demi, who looked on, relaxed, amused and kind of hopeful.
Lily really did want to touch, so she did, without answering – she couldn’t speak – she knew whatever she said would sound daft now, because it was all so obvious. Lily slowly extended her hand, as a flat palm, the skin stretched to maximise its sensitivity.
