I try to avoid stereotyping people, but my experience, back then, was that my lesbian and bisexual friends—any transgender I didn't know about-to a remarkable degree seemed to me "self-righteous." Hey, I'm a Lesbian, you know? So take notice, world.
Unfair, I'm sure. But it seemed that way to me, back then, and I became obsessed with it. I had lesbian friends in college who lectured me on everything: "You wear tight sweaters just 'cause it pleases men?" Answer: yes. "Why are you smiling at guys all the time? Do you know that one survey reports that women smile 43 percent more often than men?" Yes: I did know that, Hon, and I also know that women's faces have evolved so that their face muscles make it easier for them, than for men, to smile. Look it up. Suck it up.
My feeling, now, is that women who are lesbian, bisexual, or transgender are like the rest of us: mostly struggling to figure out where the hell it all went wrong-and how to get happy. You are wasting your time writing to explain to me that women do not make these choices, that they discover their sexual nature, not choose it. I think that is true, sisters, but I wonder why you spend so much time urging other women to pay attention to their supposedly hidden, repressed, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender urges? I mean: if it isn't a choice women make...? Actually, I suspect, some women may "choose" under pressure...
Where the hell is the story? I might be avoiding starting because I feel guilty. When you are growing up, you do cruel things. I suspect that often it is in the twisted spirit of science. How will this bug act if I pull off its wings? Or put a match under it?
We were sophomores in college, all three pre-med. Brainy girls, but chums because we were pretty, busty girls with regulation long hair—mine ironed—that dropped straight to our ass cheeks. We had "the look"—or so we imagined. We strode around campus three abreast—or six, depending how you count—and guys and girls alike stared.
Only thing, I was a pussy furnace for guys, especially older guys, especially medical students, and Lizzie and Sappho, after spending high school and freshman year at college crazy for boys, decided they were lesbians, a discovery that remarkably both made at the same time. Like new converts, the sexual equivalent of new Marxists—or maybe Trotskyites—they were shocked, shocked that more people had not seen the light and the truth and the way. Sure, great Lizzie. Congratulations, Sappho.
But they would not leave it at that. Sexual orientation is a fact of nature about which we have no choice? Right? It was only that I had not discovered that I was a lesbian. I was deluded into thinking I was hot for dicks. Smiling like a slut at the guys. Literally pushing out my not-so-hefty tits, wagging my ass—not such a big ass—at the world of men. When it was obvious where my real, sadly denied, sexual desires lay.
And so, we come to my offense. Could I get away with it? I figured I could. These girls had their hearts set on medical school. Medical schools perform careful psychiatric evaluations of future doctors. Let's say a girl in college gets herself into a big scandal, maybe makes it into the newspaper? With all the compassion in the world, what medical school will take a chance on her as a future doctor?
We were sitting on a bench on the college green, fortified by old brick buildings covered with ivy. And shaded by towering American elms not yet stricken with elm disease. And enjoying the first spring weather in Providence, Rhode Island, no overcoats, scarves. And I, at least, with a tiny mini-skirt because my legs are my sexiest feature. I make sure that anyone who explores up river far enough finds some bona fide thick, curly cunt hair. That is just me. As I said, I am not huge in the tits, but bouncy with assertive nips, which, that day, were celebrating spring free from a brassiere.
Lizzie and Sappho—obviously not their real names-wore loose slacks and sweaters. Why pander to the sexual fantasies of men? Fine. Except I wanted to talk about biochemistry, and an idea I had about stem-cell research, and they wanted to probe my psyche for an explanation of my psychological dependency on males. And my fear of acknowledging my hots for women—like them.
So I launched a scheme that long had been a daydream of mine. I turned to them—both were seated to my right-with a shy smile. "Hey, what if we all meet at my apartment on Benefit Street, right after our last class on Friday, with a double bottle of cheap Chardonnay, and talk seriously about sex?"
I managed to blush and turn away. "We could get comfortable, for a change, with no men around," I muttered. It was like offering candy to little kids. They stretched forth their hands, metaphorically, crying gimme, gimme. All I said, with a wink, was, "Okay, then, Friday at about 5:30. Good for you?"
That evening, I called some guys, two on the football team, one a wrestler. From direct observation, I could affirm that they were toting serious weaponry. Were they "nice" guys? Yeah, I would say so. Good-looking, though not exemplars of sensitivity, of course, but self-confident and horny, and not intimidated by cute co-eds with an attitude. Well, maybe they were a little nuts, now that I think of it.
When Lizzie and Sappho rapped on my door, I opened it wearing yellow short-shorts and a white halter snug on the breasts. I had ridiculously big nipples that stuck out. Honestly? I couldn't compare myself to these two babes, who had D and Double-D wine skins, the hips of eternal breeding woman of the Steppes, and faces that evolution had formed with large eyes, high cheek bones, full lips, and glorious hair. They were dressed, however, rather staidly.
Girl talk, at first, and I served the wine. They sniffed, sipped, and raved. Actually, it was a double bottle of Washington State Chardonnay for eight bucks and change. I brought on the plate of cheese and crackers, a little better than Saltines and Baby Edam, but not much. We slouched on the couch, drank, and talked.
Were they a little evasive? Sometimes it sounded as though they might be shagging each other. Sometimes as though they were virgins who were ideological lesbians. Sometimes that they were hooked into a worldwide network of heroic lesbian women. Who knew? Who, right then, give much of a shit?
Lizzie had done nothing so far but stare rudely at my body. She asked: "You ready to get comfortable, now, Ellen?"
"Yeah, let's," Sappho chimed in. As though in a race, they were hauling their sweaters over their heads. I was still frowning down at what my halter exposed of my slightly freckled chest when they had their bras off. My God, what they had to show. They glanced at each other, grinning. Those monumental ollas, with nipples three inches across, red-orange flesh stretched almost flat, still rode high on their young chests. They were grinning, now, shoving down their thongs in unison. Like nature girls, neither was shaved. Wide, dense bands of black or chestnut brown hair sprung from deep between their legs continued up almost to their navels. Sappho ran her hand through hers, smoothing it, as Liz watched.
I had not slipped off my halter. I had tits, they had boobs. That really didn't bother me. Well, it did, but mostly I was having a little trouble exhibiting all I had to these girls, who seemed to watching me like cannibals planning what cut of the naked captive tied to the stake they will slice when the whole tribe closes in with knives.
"Those nips are thumbing a ride," commented Sappho with a leer as I reluctantly opened the halter. Then, I frowned. What was Liz doing digging in her purse? In a moment, with a triumphant smile, she whipped out black leather handcuffs. She said to Sappho, "Push her down on the bed, we'll finish stripping her.
Yes, Sappho shoved me onto my back, swung her leg over me, holding me down with her weight. I felt her pussy hair brush my stomach. She held my wrists in her hands, pinned together above my head, my arms stretched.
But Liz was leaning over me, boobs dangling, snapping on the cuffs—tight—chaining me to the bed frame.
"I think we can, honey" said Sappho merrily, dismounting me and standing beside the bed. She leered down at me, her lips parted with arousal, eyes wide, as Liz jerked down my shorts and dragged them off my kicking feet. "Ooh, a red thong," said Sappho, "delicious. Let's see what's she's hiding under it. I sure as hell see pussy hair all around the edges." She was hauling down my thong with one hand, so eager to start that the other hand already was sliding into my thick pussy hair, stroking it like a dog's fur, and one finger had slipped between my labia.
"Can we strap her ankles down, too?" asked Liz, watching my long legs kicking in the air. "What else you got in your bag?" asked Sappho. Liz reached in, and, giggling, pulled out a jumbo black dildo, a good 10 inches long, thick, its surface rough with imitation veins. It had an obscenely fat head. I could feel the muscles of my inner thighs trembling and a contraction deep in my cunt as though pulling back to safety.
"Ain't going to happen." My voice was shaking, now. "I can scream, you know," I said. I really wasn't panicked; this was just what I expected. Well...a little panicked at what had happened, even knowing I didn't have to scream, only raise my voice a little. It was just that two girlfriends of mine, this quickly, had me helpless in my own apartment, to do with my body whatever their hearts desired. I felt vulnerable.
But I rallied. I had strategized about this moment—well, not quite like this—about getting them hot, crazed with lust—setting them up for the surprise.
I glanced from under my eyelids, blushing, and said: "Okay, you two. I guess I invited you over for a play date. So what do we do, now that we are comfortable?"
Liz grinned. What a stunning face. "Now," she said, "you see how much nicer it is to be touched by a woman than a man."
Sappho nodded her assent. Her hands had risen to heft her own heavy boobs, squashing them, even grinning down at them, her tongue out, as though she might lick one. You know, like in porn. She probably imagined she was lighting my fire with her pale, perfectly smooth flesh and those glorious aroused nipples. Well, okay, she was—a little.
Liz's hands were exploring all of me. First, they surged up my legs, like a genuine massage, then jumped to my arms, Liz watching my face. Then her hands cupped my tits. It felt nice, but slightly weird that it was a girl. The came my belly, with suddenly lustful dive into my cunt. I closed my eyes. I felt Sappho's fingers join in, diddling my stiff nips. Then, I felt her lips were brushing them. I released a long sigh.
Well, they handled me like mad, breathing hard, as though this was their first time. They both kissed my mouth. I was panting a little, too, and without opening my eyes I ran my hand over Sappho's tits, across her belly, through the curly hair rising from between her legs. I shoved two fingers into her cunt, feeling for the stiff clit. Soon, I had her squirming like a worm on a frying pan.
I heard the key turn in the lock, but almost noiselessly. Liz and Sappho were sailing through space, by now, and noticed nothing. I glanced aside briefly and saw the guys slip through the door, snatch the clothes from the floor, and dart into the bedroom.
I waited maybe two minutes, then said loudly, with surprise in my voice: "Oh, jeez, I didn't know you guys were home?"
