The Straight Girl

Or, what can happen if I leave the house instead of fucking around on the internet once in a while.

I pried myself away from the computer and my apartment for the night, wrapping myself against the cold Maine night as I trudged to a bar for a work party. Rather, some people from work were meeting up since one of them is moving away to get drunk and be dull. As is usually the case, I've found my new workmates a pleasant enough bunch with whom I have nothing in common. Still—it had been hard to escape the invite, and I needed to shake the dust off after nearly six mostly solitary (and celibate) months in Portland. So I went.

Booze helped, especially since people kept picking up my drinks, coworkers and guys looking to get my attention. I paid for about half, not a bad ratio. I was resigned to a long night of forced smiles and shop talk when a colleague offhandedly introduced someone to me, saying, "Oh, this is Anna—she's visiting and wanted to come along." I looked over and saw a plainly pretty little dirty blonde, with thin lips showing a skim of pale gloss, looking tired and a little lost in her big overcoat. "Oh, hi," I heard myself stammer, as her lonely little smile caught me inexplicably. "Um, what are you drinking?"

We talked, her clearly grateful that someone at the noisy bar was paying attention. She was in from out of town, college friend, on her way to visit her aunt, etc. She was nice, and shyly funny in a way that works on me. She had a habit of brushing the wisps of hair that escaped her short pony tail behind her left ear that I thought was girlishly endearing. And she was no dummy—in fact, she seemed as bored by her college friend here as I was by her at work every week, and we fell into a nice, easy rhythm.

I wasn't overly flirty. I wasn't here to pick up mousy friends of coworkers I'd have to deal with at the office. It'd be complicated—in a dull way. Plus, I'm not feeling particularly confident these days—or when I am, it's anonymously, online, or in places where even being face-to-face is anonymous. I just enjoyed the chat, and interacting with someone who didn't bore me. We had several more drinks—she, adorably, switched to my vodka tonics after that first rum and coke I bought her.

No one at the "party" noticed us. They were being dully uninhibited, drinking and laughing too loudly. When I asked if she smoked, I did it with a conspiratorial whisper, that made her laugh. I liked her answer ("Only at loud bars"), as I did her tinkly little laugh, like she was pleased at herself for being naughty. We slipped into our coats and out the door.

In the cold, I pulled out the old pack of Dunhill blues I kept for just such occasions. (I don't really smoke—except when I want to get someone alone for a minute.) When she took one of them from my proffered pack, I let her place it between those thin lips, then leaned in against the wind to light it with the old mother-of-pearl zippo I kept, again, for just such occasions. It lit, I lit her cigarette, then, as if huddling in to keep it lit, brushed her downy, pale cheek with my lips as the flame caught.

I didn't acknowledge the kiss as I lit up—and, after a moment, neither did she. I snapped the lighter closed, and we inhaled together, then exhaled the same way. We didn't talk for a long minute, then, when she took her cigarette out and opened her mouth to speak, I kissed her again, this time right on those thin lips.

I went on as long as I felt her lips stay soft. When they tensed, I pulled back and let her see my eyes. I didn't apologize—but I smiled a little sheepishly. She pulled me back in then and kissed me hard, surprising and delighting me, her fresh, smoky booze breath and her darting little tongue stealing in past my full, wet lips sending a warm bath of desire through me in the cold.

We were in an Uber in five minutes, stumbling into my vestibule in fifteen. Nude in seventeen. On the way over in some guy's car, I reached out to stroke her little hand, but we didn't speak. When we were inside, I kept kissing her, undressing her. Not giving her time to think. That sounds predatory, I suppose, but her body and her hands and her mouth told me all I needed to know about what she wanted to actually be doing—boyfriend be damned.

She told me while we were drinking. Boyfriend, long-distance, trying to make it work while he's at his new job in San Francisco, etc. I'm a good listener—and, again, I move in when I know what I want, but only once I sense I'll be wanted. (I wanted her, but I didn't want to be humiliated.) I really am a good listener. I liked her. And she was the one who brought up the story of the similarly drunken night in college when she and my coworker acquaintance "fooled around." She blushed so sweetly when she said it that I had to restrain myself from kissing here right in front of her old pal—who, Anna confided, always brought it up when she was in town and then laughed too loudly over white wine.

And then I had her standing up against my living room wall, her jeans around her ankles, and my face burrowing into the tight little moist knot of her panties. They were simple. Cotton. Little heartbreaking flowers on them. Definitely not panties she was planning on getting laid in. I wrapped her slim hips in my arms and then yanked them down. Her sparse, unassuming brown thatch was darkened with wetness, and I licked her inner thighs of it, then buried my tongue into its center. Her voice—thin like the rest of her—tinkled in the air between us. I found her slit, pried it open with my tongue (I have a nice, long, fat tongue), and heard her louder.

I pressed her through that time of undressing, in my living room, before I had her naked and pliant in my bedroom. Sound harsh? I didn't want to lose her. Anna was straight. Straight enough. But she was lonely and—in that lovely phrase, whoever came up with it—female sexuality is a lot more fluid. (Men—you really have no idea what you're missing.)

In bed, once I had her ribby, high-breasted body where I wanted it, she was so lovely. So sweet and—lovely. She let me go down on her for as long as I wanted—and I wanted hours. I teased her lips out, pulling them long and thin, and then sucked them into my mouth. I fingered her while I made her, finally, achingly come in my mouth as I sucked her salty little clit. (She really didn't know she'd be laid tonight.) I kissed my way up her tummy and found her impossibly delicate breasts, with nipples like my dreams—she had barely any aureoles, and her nipples popped out like raspberries on her sloping, triangular little tits.

When I kissed her with her own come on my lips, she pulled back. I pressed hard and she relented, with a little moan. I was dripping on her as I straddled her hips. I kissed her again and again and again.

I fingered her to coming again while we made out, her yelping into my mouth, our kissing not stopping, not for anything.

When she lay gasping, I curled her to my body. I held her close and warmed her, my ample form practically enveloping her, or so it felt to me. I imagined she'd leave, or at the most, stay and sleep without reciprocating. That was a pattern I'd seen with the "straight" girls I'd been with. But Anna was a surprise, as she kissed me deeply, fixed me with a saucy look I hadn't yet seen, then went down on me until I saw stars.

I found myself, once the stars cleared, worrying as I always do, about my body, who I am inside. Especially thinking of Anna inside me, her thin, middle class, trim little lithe body that her noncommittal but rich boyfriend paws when it suits him. Between coming and coming again I felt tears squeeze between my lids, preemptively feeling alone again.

When she was exhausted—as I was—she kissed me, unexpectedly, as I'd forced my kiss on her. I tasted my cunt on her thin lips, on her darting tongue. I smelled myself as she kissed her way up my face—and then straddled my face , pinning my raised arms startlingly above my head. When I looked up past her now dripping little cunt, her face above me was parted with a corked smile. "Lick me, now," she said, and I came as soon as her sopping pussy smothered me.

In short. Getting outside. Recommended.