I knew from early on that I was different. The other girls would giggle about boys and I wouldn't giggle, especially about boys. They would collect dolls and I would gather old toy trucks and insects, and they would dress in lacy clothes and I hated dresses. The other girls had boys they would drool over and I would not drool, but I would ache for the attention of the prettiest and the most feminine, curly headed little female child in the class. I wanted to hold her, protect her, and touch her lovely flesh.
It was at a sleepover where I first felt the loveliness of womanhood against me and I stiffened and reached for her softness, felt the curves of her body, the roundness of her bottom, drank in the scent of her. The sleepover did come to anything, but it set the stage for what was to come. Even then, I wanted to taste the young woman I hungered for. Yes, I went out with boys in high school, but it was women I wanted to be with.
I fought it, struggled to be like the others, but it was clear it was not me. In college I had a roommate and she was beautiful, but she was totally and wholeheartedly heterosexual and devoted to the opposite gender. I was devoted to her. We would sleep in the same bed but I would not sleep. I would lay next to her and think of her and every part of her: her lips, her breasts, her long and enticing legs, and her sweet slit that hid just between her thighs. I was obsessed with every part of her. She would tell me about a date: how manly, how muscular he was, and I would focus on her and fixate on every part of her anatomy. When she would talk about his kisses, I would think of hers, long for hers, dream of getting even one. I would come oh so close to telling her I loved her, wanted her, and as we lay close I would creep right up to the threshold of touching her, holding her, and kissing those sweet and tender lips.
When she excitedly told me she was engaged it was the saddest day of my life. I tried to be happy for her, tried to at least look the part, but inside I was dying. I watched her stand in her wedding dress, modeling it for us, beaming, and I only could think of what was under that long, white dress and hated myself for imagining her naked and under my tongue, thinking sexual thoughts at such a nonsexual moment. How could I be so carnal at such a 'happy' moment for her?
Two years later, after losing her I had another "roommate and we were frolicking on the bed, laughing and rolling back and forth together like silly friends, I lost it totally and kissed her. She stiffened, then seemed to stop breathing and my heart went numb. I thought I had screwed it up again, but she turned to me, put her hands on my face and kissed me, soft and long and tender.
"Oh god," she said. "I have wanted to do that for so long," she added breathlessly. "I did not want to fuck it up," she said, "again." I put my arms around her and pulled her to me.
"You too?" I said. We laughed and held one another for the longest time, then we undressed and looked at one another for the longest time again. She moved between my legs and looked at me, and I twisted around so I could do the same and looked at the part of her I was most interested in.
"Have you ever looked at one before?" she asked.
"Only secretly," I said. "In books, magazines, and occasionally in the locker room." We laughed together because we both had. "Can I taste yours?" I asked.
"Only if I can too," she whispered. "There was a girl once, who was 'curious' and she let me look at her. She kissed me, but said it was just an experiment, a test. She let me kiss her, but she made it clear she preferred cocks. She even said I could eat her but she would not eat me and that she preferred fucking and was no lesbian. She actually said that. I didn't care. If she let me eat her I would do anything she wanted, call her whatever. We 'made love' twice, and it is still my only sex with a woman."
"Until now," I said, triumphantly. We put our arms around one another and held each other for thirty minutes without moving, without talking. When we finally moved we went back to the position we had been in to 'look' at one another. I have learned since that it is called the classic sixty-nine position that we women love, and when I was in that position I kissed her sweet slit and she kissed mine. It felt wonderful, both on my lips and my pussy.
Hungrily, I lapped at her syrupy lips and relished the soft feel of her petals under my tongue. I looked at her secondary mouth, splayed like a butterfly for me, open and ready for my kiss, supple and wet, lovely and pink. I brushed my tongue over it, tasting the tangy flavor of lemony womanhood and I reached the tip of my tongue between her softness and into her body, then I pressed my lips against hers and gave it the kiss it deserved, the one I had been hoping for.
I felt her mouth at my pussy doing the same thing, paying homage to my lower mouth, sucking on my lips, kissing my opening, tasting the flavor of my sex. I pushed my hips forward and I felt her body respond and force itself towards my mouth and my tongue. As one we ate the other person with a commitment and dedication that had my heart pumping fast and energetic, strong and faithful.
For the first time in my life I knew what I was doing and I was loving doing it. All of the pent up frustrations were coming out of me and I knew it was what I was meant to do. The pussy at my mouth was kissing me back and I was devoted to making her enjoy my touch, my softness, my flavor.
When we each came we stayed in that position and savored the sight of the other woman's sex and luxuriated in the view, gazing at the sweet slit we had craved for so many years without having the nerve or the boldness to satisfy our unshakable instinct.
I kissed her pussy again and it twitched, moved slightly under my lips. I licked the length of it and tasted again the flavor I now craved.