I Am Not A Lesbian

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As I said most emphatically in another chapter of my life that I have laid bare for you here, I am not a lesbian.

I would have used the old, “I am not now, nor have I ever been, a lesbian,” but I’m afraid that putting it just that way would not be exactly true.

I’m not a lesbian, though. Really.

Just because I found myself one time, just one time, exchanging oral pleasures with another woman doesn’t make me gay, does it? I don’t think so.

I mean, I know there’s something a little weird about having actual fun masturbating. I’ve also said, in another chapter of my memoir, that I don’t masturbate all that often, but that’s simply a function of the fact that, in America today, a reasonably pretty lady who tries to keep herself in shape doesn’t have to sleep alone all that often. That is, if she doesn’t want to. And I don’t.

But I’d be lying if I tried to tell you that I never touch myself like that, and this was the point I was trying to make.

I touch myself like that.

Every girl does.

Let’s not mince words. I touch a woman’s labia: mine. I rub and stroke a woman’s clitoris: mine. I place fingers inside a vagina — my own — and it gives me sensual pleasure to touch myself down there like that. In fact, it goes without saying, that’s why I do it.

When I do it.

I think that’s why I’ve always had the “ok, no!” attitude about letting a man watch me pleasure myself. Because it’s me showing that I like playing with feminine parts; and I’m supposed to be all woman. I’m supposed to be all about wanting a “big hard cock throbbing inside” those female parts. If I liked female parts myself, well…..

Now that I’m with a man I love who sometimes naughtily masturbates himself deliberately right in front of me, and who sometimes — not often, but sometimes — asks me to do the same while he watches me, I think that the notion that it is a dirty and brazen display of me loving myself is what makes it so damned horny and nasty and obscene and, okay, let’s face it, fun, when I get up my nerve and open myself and put my hand down there and go ahead and do that for him.

On those times when we’ve done that, I start coming almost immediately, and the only question is how long he lets me go on touching myself for him before he takes over.

What he doesn’t know (he’s never asked) is that on exactly one occasion, just once, the girl that made me come wasn’t me. And the girl parts that I brought to an orgasm, weren’t mine.

I’m sure you want to know how this happened. As someone said on the message boards for the website where I have been baring these pieces of my soul, the cliché is that all women are one drink away from being bi. Well, I’ve had me some drinks in my time, and that wasn’t how this happened.

I was nearly a decade out of college at the time, settling comfortably into my career, one state and a few hundred miles away from where I come from. I was starting to feel like this town was where I lived and not just the place where I happened to be.

Among other things, I had settled into a routine with the woman who did my hair, who seemed to have a knack for getting just about the look that I was hoping for.

This had always been a constant challenge for me. Some stylists had their own ideas of what they wanted to do with my hair, and with them, it was as though I had never even said “leave it long.” Christy, on the other hand, always listened to me.

When I first started going to her, Christy was working in a salon in the mall by me. After a couple of years, she went out on her own, and had a place closer to town: a little storefront with a desk out front where the girl who always washed my hair sat to answer the phones, and a doorway behind that led to a couple of little stalls with the chairs that could turn full around or go up or down for the stylist.

As the years went by, I came to realize that Christy was a lesbian. That was no great surprise, as probably most of the people who have done my hair in my lifetime were pretty obviously gay men.

Because of my job, most of my appointments with Christy were during her occasional evening hours, but even then, most of the time, her assistant would be there, too, greeting me with a glass of wine before she shampooed me and put me in the chair, with the wine, for Christy’s ministrations. The wine was one of the benefits of the evening hours.

On a few occasions, it was just me and Christy in the entire place. And let me assure you that when this happened, it wasn’t like “she immediately thrust her tongue into my waiting hole,” or anything like that. I don’t know about other people, but that kind of reckless assault, man or women, never happens to me.

Good thing, I might add.

But she did tell me very frankly that she was gay, and that she was a member of the group that was suing the state to make gay marriage legal. She said she was asking some of her friends if they could contribute anything, no matter how much, to their legal fees.

I assured her I would.

The best that I can remember, bahis firmaları there was no wine that night. There often wasn’t when Christy’s assistant wasn’t around. So it wasn’t one drink making me bi, and nothing happened that night anyway, but somehow I worked my way around to saying to her “I just don’t know if I could get what I need from another woman. Do you know what I mean?” I hoped I wasn’t offending her.

But no, she made a big show of laughing and, continuing to comb out a long strand of my wet hair, she bragged “sister, if you closed your eyes and let me go down on you, and you let yourself forget it was me and just felt what I did to you, I’m pretty sure it would be the last time you’d ever say you didn’t get what you needed.”

She smiled and her gaze lingered for just a second and then she just went back to cutting my hair like we had been talking about nothing more than the weather.

It was funny how those words settled into me and wouldn’t let me go. I don’t mean that night, or even that year for that matter. When she finished cutting and drying and spraying and brushing and letting me look in the mirror, I paid her and we exchanged the usual pleasantries and I went home.

But I have to admit that from time to time I pulled that memory back up and turned it over in my mind. I sometimes even did so when I was gently massaging myself between my legs to have a release to help me sleep, imagining that I was about to let her prove that point to me, to open myself to another woman and let her pleasure me with her feminine mouth. I always told myself, and to this day I mostly, mostly still believe, that’s just fine. Fantasies are just fantasies.

I am not, after all, a lesbian.

As time went by, when we were alone in her shop, Christy would sometimes tease me by saying “you remember what I said about rocking your world, girl. Just pretend it’s a man if you want. You won’t know what hit you.” Not always those exact words, but you get the point.

Not long after I met my current lover, my soul mate, when I was in that high of being a very desirable woman for him, and me with a hot, loving man to play with, when I felt as confident and alive and sexy as I ever have, I had one of those evening appointments with Christy. And as sometimes happened, her assistant wasn’t there.

There was no wine. So it wasn’t the drink. And I was not on the rebound from some horribly failed relationship. Quite the contrary, I felt as good about my sexuality as I ever had. So none of those tired old reasons for what happened that evening applied.

Christy must have noticed how contented and desirable I felt, because as she snipped here and there at my hair, she teasingly went to that old, familiar place. “Hon, you know a girl could put that same smile on your face!”

I smiled even more and, from a new and unfamiliar place of sexual confidence and security, I teased her right back. “Heh, I don’t think you can,” I replied, with a lilt in my voice that I guess was meant to convince one or both of us that I was, of course, kidding.

“You think I’m joking, hon.” She surprised me just then by touching — caressing — my hair in a way that had nothing to do with styling it. I felt a shiver run through me. I think about that first shiver that night, from time to time. Was it excitement? Revulsion? I’m pretty sure revulsion was too strong a word, because I know whatever my body was up to, my mind was doing nothing more than disbelieving, denying, and yet ultimately feeling curious.

If I closed my eyes and let her do that to me, would I be grossed out because it was the mouth of a girl? Or was she right that I would enjoy it every bit as much (even more, she always bragged) as when a man who knew what he was doing used his tongue to please me that way?

I decided there was no harm in just playing along with this little verbal game. It would never go all the way to “that” because, well, like I said, I’m not a lesbian.

So, “no way,” was my comeback. “I would definitely know that it was you, and I’m all for you being out and everything, but I just happen to prefer guys.”

This was the first time I had ever responded to her little challenge with anything other than rolling my eyes or giving her an innocent little wink. She picked up on it immediately.

“No way?” she mimicked me. “Are you willing to put your money… Let me start over again,” and we laughed together, both of us realizing where that was going. “Are you willing to find out if I’m right?” Once again, her hand brushed my hair back from my face but there was no hairstyling going on at that moment. It was a caress. There was no denying it.

It felt nice.

The first one had been her fingertips through my hair, brushing it back, not unlike the way she arranged it for the scissors when she was doing her job instead of making blatant passes at me. The next time, though, she stroked my hair and just the slightest bit of my face with the flats of her fingers.

Hedonist that I am, I accepted the warm feeling that spread from her hand to my face to kaçak iddaa my neck.

I smiled at her, envisioning my own lover, and confident in my own sexuality. “You know what?” I thought silently to myself, “I do want to feel what it’s like from a girl.”

“Okay,” I said impishly, “I’m game. Go ahead.” I made a show of throwing my shoulders back in the chair and thrusting my legs apart, bumping her own leg firmly with my thigh in the process.

She laughed. Her tone got serious. “Oh, hon, I wouldn’t… I mean, you …. I can tell you really like this guy. I don’t mean to mess with you. But baby, let me tell you, I could mess with you!”

By now, there was no turning back for me. I placed my hand on hers as it had paused in my hair beside my face. “I’ll close my eyes and pretend. Like you said. I mean it.” I paused, then, and added, “I want you to.”

She looked long into my eyes. A smile slowly made its way across her face. She brushed a hair back from her own forehead and then set the styling scissors down on the counter.

She watched me then for one more moment and finally said, “Ok…. Ok…. You’re on, girl!”

All of a sudden I felt intensely that I was out of my league. I felt my face getting so hot. “Ok, so, like, what do you want me to do?” I felt so naughty knowing what I had just agreed to do, sitting here in the fully-lit back room of her storefront styling shop and actually talking to her about it.

“Oh, honey, you don’t have to do anything!” she replied. “You can get out of that skirt while I go lock the front door, but you can leave the rest to me!” Her enthusiasm was there in the open between us and I have to admit, it was cute. She was moments away from approaching my private places in an intimate way — exactly how I wasn’t sure — in order to make me climax for her, and she made no secret of the fact that she really relished making those things happen, whereas I was merely going to accept them from her, basically, at her request, or if you prefer, on her challenge.

I will not say that she was the only one with sexual desire at what was about to happen there in her studio, but she clearly had the better portion of it. I could smell it from her, although whether it was her sweet breath or her glistening sweat or the moisture of her womanly desire, or some combination of all three, I was too confused and inexperienced and excited to tell.

She came back from locking the door and without further invitation she grasped the waistline of my panties. I lifted myself slightly in the chair as she tugged them down and off of me.

I closed my eyes and did my best to relax. Her hands caressed the outside of my thighs, gently and slowly, not coming near to my sex although I knew she could see my little clitoris begin to swell and reveal itself to her. She parted my legs a little more.

Her hands moved to the inside of my thighs and still she would not touch my sex, but the touching was so agonizingly sexy and slow that I felt beads of moisture forming at the bottom of my outer labia.

She kept teasing me like that, using only her hands, until I was sure that my arousal was completely obvious to her. Then, she brought her face into me. I moaned, knowing that I smelled of nasty creamy liquidy womanly desire. Her tongue went right to that place, near my taint, where the moisture I couldn’t see must have been congregating.

I could feel her tongue gather it up and then resume its journey toward my belly.

She continued this slow torture of me forever. I would feel her tongue part my lips and lap at the inside of me, and slide up to the center of my arousal, only to play its way back down, and up, and around. It seemed her patience was unending and just Holy Crap did this feel good.

I was in that nice place between “this isn’t doing anything for me yet” and “brace yourself” when I felt one of her slender little feminine fingers touching that curvy part of my butt-cheek that my male lover loves to stroke. She lingered there for a moment and then pressed on, toward home base.

I can assure you that no woman has ever, before or since, so much as brushed a fingertip across my anus, but that was exactly what Christy had just done.

If I wondered for a moment whether it was one of those accidental things that happened in the heat of passion, I soon learned to the contrary. Just at the moment that she let her tongue zero in on my most sensitive button, her finger pressed itself against my brown hole and massaged it insistently back and forth, around and around, pressing firmly against me but never actually, finally, seeking entrance. I imagined a boy there, having a naughty thrill at making no secret of enjoying my tight little spot.

And then she took it away. For a little while she lavished the attention of her tongue on my most sensitive place, giving me familiar feelings of pleasure, and I reached down and stroked her soft hair.

Then she stopped, leaving me wanting more of what she had been giving me. But then I felt something against myself, something pressing there against kaçak bahis the wetness of me, slipping and probing inside of me. It was her finger, followed very gently by a second one. And then she showed me what even my delicious boy, my lover, had never quite done.

She massaged those two fingers together inside me against the front of my vagina. I knew that my G-spot was there, but she massaged it and traced it with those two fingers in just such a way that, oh my God, I never wanted her to stop.

Then she slowly brought her face back to me. I could feel her breath on me, just above where her fingers were penetrating me, hovering there for a moment before she assaulted me again with her tongue. I moaned and my orgasm was just there, about to rip itself out of me.

And she stopped, withdrawing her fingers.

Several unbearable unbelievable times she did this to me, gently bringing me to the edge of a climax I wanted so badly, only to leave me empty and aching and quivering out of my control, my mind furiously begging for release.

And then, one final time, it happened.

My thighs rocked together. My abdomen pulled me down as if I were doing sit-ups. My head flew back into the stylist’s chair. I felt new wetness flow against her lips where they were gently nuzzling between my legs. I was coming. And coming. And she was moaning there with me, and, just, oh wow.

I don’t know how you’d measure the best orgasm you ever had, but all I can tell you is that I was happy right then and there, drained and tingling from the bottoms of my feet to the top of my head. It took a moment for me to come back down and remember, probably from the fact that the lover between my thighs unthinkingly swept her hair to one side, that the giver of this particular orgasm was Christy, a girl, my stylist. Oh my God, I thought, as an aftershock rolled over me. Oh my God.

When I was able to recover from the spasms that racked my body, I sat up and looked into her eyes. Smiling, I thought for a long moment and then stood and took her hand in mine and gestured toward the couch at the very back of her studio. I had always thought of it as the place that she would pass the time between appointments, or where clients would wait after she had applied that stinky perm solution to their hair.

Now it was a place for me to return a treasured favor. I pulled her sweatpants down to the floor and let her step out of them. I drew her black thong down over her thighs and tossed that away, too. I lay back on the cushions and guided her curving backside toward my face. I pressed myself between her thighs and felt the moisture that had gathered there, and I sought out the different parts of her sex with my tongue, saving her delicious little clitty for last. When eventually I teased it with my tongue, she rocked herself against my face.

I enjoyed giving her the intense arousal of making different swirls across her magic button, but I also with delicious excitement thrust my tongue as well as I could into her soft wet opening. I could feel her little pee-hole in there when my tongue finally found it, and I licked it and Christy made no secret that she loved that naughty feeling.

I remembered how Christy’s own slender finger had pressed just “there” against my tiny little ass and how wicked that had made me feel and I wondered if it was partly done by her as a sign that she herself liked to be touched down there. Why would she go there on me if it weren’t something she liked to feel in her own hidden place?

Knowing what I knew about the penetration of the female bottom, I licked the long, middle finger of my left hand and then got it even more slick by slipping it inside of her engorged nether lips. She was lubricating herself so freely now as I moved my tongue over her that it contributed greatly to what I wanted on my finger.

I pulled the finger out of her vagina and traced it across to her little puckered hole. As wet as it was, this was not enough, so I repeated the action four or five or six times, bringing her wetness, occasionally helped by my saliva, to her anus before I dared to begin pressing against her tight little sphincter. When the tip of my finger first crossed her barrier and slippery-slid inside of her warm body, and felt her now from the inside, she wiggled her hips for me as if to say “oh yes!” It pleased me to know that I had read her subtle message correctly, and that I was giving her an extra thrill by inserting myself into her forbidden place this way. I pressed farther, until the second knuckle was just there in my sight at her slightly stretched opening. With my arm wrapped around her thigh the way it was, I wasn’t going to get any more of my finger into her bottom without completely changing positions, so I plied the tip of my middle finger in and out of her, slowly and sensually as I could, and it was enough.

As my finger worked in and out of her anal passage right there in front of my eyes, there was no mistaking the new aroma that was added to the scents I was already experiencing. I was smelling her bum on my finger, added to the scent of her arousal on my nose and lips as I nuzzled her. I imagined being a man and doing these things and touching and probing and smelling these things, and I pretended that they were objects of my desire.

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