Thirteen Conservations About Teh Gay II: Girlie Sex!
1. Human Conventions
"Robin?" Starfire asked one sunny summer afternoon, swooping out to where he was studiously brooding about Slade and their ongoing dead ends in trying to find the mysterious supervillain. "I have a question."
"What's that, Star?" Robin asked, noticing the blush in the alien girl's cheeks.
"As you know, I have often misunderstood human conventions and practices," she said, shifting back and forth. "Certain feelings are unclear to me, and sometimes, the customs involved in certain human practices are incomprehensible."
Robin looked at Starfire again. Could she be trying to say she liked him? Stranger things had happened. "What kind of customs and practices? Give me an example," he said.
"Okay. Say there was someone who you were friends with, except that your emotions were stronger for that friend than with your other friends," Star said, smiling sheepishly. "And you were not sure if this would be acceptable to your friend. Except that your emotions are so strong that sometimes there are dreams."
"Well, maybe you could ask that friend how they felt about you," Robin said. "Maybe they'd say they felt the same way. Or maybe they would say that they hadn't thought about it that way yet."
Star nodded. "I knew that was what you would say," she said. "What if you said these things, and the person said they didn't know how they felt? And then you tried to convince them by kissing them?"
"I..." and Robin, for the life of him, couldn't see either Cyborg or Beast Boy interested in Starfire that way."What happened when you kissed that person?"
"There was much tongue-touching. And then there was rubbing and touching in many places," Star said, blushing again. "And many pleasurable feelings, but just when it seemed that there was mutual pleasure, what if that person said, 'we have to stop! someone could see!'? What does this mean?"
"It means that someone's going to get my fist in his face," Robin muttered under his breath. "I think the person likes you, Star, when that happens, except he might be afraid of what everyone will say. But I promise, Star. The Titans will stand behind you both, because we're friends."
Star threw her arms around Robin exuberantly. "Wonderful!" she cried. "Raven will be most delighted to know that she may keep kissing me without fear of things 'getting weird' as she worried. Thank you, Robin! You are a true friend."
With that, she flew off. Robin gaped after her, shaking his head.
"Girls," he said.
2. Naked Women!
Xander said once that the entire problem with being a teenaged boy was that at any moment, the idea of naked women could pop into your head, and then you were screwed for the rest of the day. Because when there's a naked girl in your head, even if she's not doing anything, who's going to think about such mundane things such as math or work or weapons training?
Her eyes focused on Cordelia's swollen nipples, Buffy thinks she has become a boy. Metaphorically speaking.
"Are you here to look?" Cordelia asks acidly, licking her lips. "Take your clothes off. Get comfortable."
Buffy's mouth dries out. "I don't think I can do both," she admits.
She's just so naked, and she's tan everywhere. No lines. And dear God, those breasts, just pointed and perky and waiting to be licked and nibbled and treated like fruit. Buffy's staring, and her hands are fitfully trying to pull off her skirt and undies, kick 'em to the side without blinking.
"Buf-fy," Cordelia says very precisely, looming very close. "Haven't you ever seen naked breasts before?"
"Not yours," Buffy says, hypnotized.
Cordelia grins, and cups one seductively, squeezing and lifting before tracing a spiral until the nipple's peaked and hungry-making. Buffy can't pull her eyes away. "You try," she suggests.
3. Spider's Column for October 8
When did 'Lesbian' become an accepted ethnic identity? It seems that every day, the feeds are full of sordid details about the care, feeding, and lifestyles of these dangerous women who, because they've decided to stop fucking around with our dicks, are threats to national security.
Gay men, it seems, are easily understood: they're ass pirates, coming to plunder the final frontier, that last puckered hole that, God willing, will always stay virgin and forever England. Never mind I saw you begging your dominatrix third wife to abuse it just a little harder. That, dear reader, happened in the bonds of holy matrimony. God smiles down, we are told, on any perversion, violence, or oddity so long as a man and a woman do it in wedlock, and the butt pirates don't do it to us.
I, Spider Jerusalem, fully support this point of view. After all, if I don't, the butt pirates will come after me. Of course, I have a Lesbian bodyguard...excuse me. After a brief re-education with the dangerous Lesbian Correction Stick, known to us non-Lesbians as a baseball bat, I have learned that I have a Bisexual bodyguard, which is Lesbian for, "No, I will not fuck you, Spider, but I will claim it is possible to torment your aching dick for eternity."
Of course, this was not what one Filthy Assistant said to the other last night while they were having filthy steroid fantasy sex and playing with two sets of breasts, that dream for every Real Man in America, Smiler or no. However, the Lesbian Correction Stick tells me if I 'overshare' this public information, I shall find my head lumpier, so I stand before you, censored again by the Lesbians.
Filthy assistants think I am not onto their tribe's secret dances and furtive schemes to exploit men who would give their life savings just to get a glimpse at that most fulfilling of sex acts: the one with no penis whatsoever involved! Besides that, I don't know why Lesbians are a tribe. They don't look alike or have much in common; filthy assistants often get in violent fights over which hapless boy to torment with their Lesbianity.
And as I have just earned myself a date with the Lesbian Correction Stick, I end with this thought: they wouldn't fuck you even if they liked dick, so your infantile fantasies are enough to make me laugh.
4. Eaten Alive
Laura Palmer could eat you alive without even knowing she's done it. Josie heard Benjamin Horne's daughter say this one afternoon after the two girls had fought in the hallway of the hotel, and once she'd puzzled her way through the idiom, Josie thought Audrey knew better than she knew.
Laura needs. The sunny smiles, the cheerful demeanor, all of this fade under the shadow of her need. Her hands fasten against Josie's wrists, and the innocence melts away like fog in the sun. "Show me," she hisses. "Teach me this."
Josie teaches Laura sex; Laura teaches Josie English. An exchange of tongues, Laura says, laughing. Josie does not understand at first, but then, when Josie's tongue is swirling inside Laura, Laura's hands rough, like claws, urging Josie on and on, it makes sense.
Laura does not ask for lust, or love. And Josie does not love the Laura who goes on hands and knees, bottom high in the air, and growls, "Take me, fuck me, show me how they'd do you." The way she comes wearing nothing underneath a pleated skirt, teaching Josie the vocabulary of the mill as she pulls Josie's hand underneath to stroke smooth, shaved skin, dance attendance over that hard pearl of a clit.
If this were the only Laura, Josie would find a different teacher. She has no wish to be subject to another tyrant, not with Catherine lurking everywhere. But afterwards, or even when Laura's plunged deep into her lust, red tongue flickering, sheen of sweat over her face, her eyes will open, so blue. And she will be afraid. A child's spirit drowning in a woman's body that burns and demands like a demon.
Josie has no words to explain that she knows the ugly Laura is not the true one, that she is a demon-driven shell wormed through with desires not her own. She waits for Laura to teach them, so they can exchange tongues again.
The fog gets thicker every day. Josie isn't sure if the sun will burn it off.
5. Bed-Sharing Customs
The confrontation was not going particularly well. Lacey had known that it was coming from the moment Queen Kettricken, heavily pregnant, waddled into the Queen's Garden. She had been almost rude to Lady Patience, nodding curtly at her newest experiments with the plants and trees, and had hastily cornered Lacey to ask about what exactly it was that Lacey and Lady Patience shared in their bed.
Lacey, knowing that if she demurred the question, Kettricken would simply ask Patience, told her as concisely as possible.
The look on Kettricken's face was half-shock, half-surprise, which would be enough, Lacey supposed, to soothe the girl about it.
"I suppose the Mountain way is to despise it," Lacey suggested, knitting away. "Are you disgusted, Queen Kettricken?"
"I should be," Kettricken said severely. "She's the Lady of Buckkeep and you share her bed! If that were common knowledge, it could be..."
"It is common knowledge, my queen," Lacey said quietly. "Folks don't think any further than that. Lady Patience is a widow who's lost the nearest thing to a son, and it's difficult times. Who's going to begrudge the comfort of sharing a bed in a castle this cold, especially to women?"
Kettricken's pale face softened the slightest bit, but the distaste lingered in her eyes. "But what of Chivalry? I would assume you both prefer men," she said.
"If we were both younger, I suppose you'd assume right," Lacey said patiently, watching her lady cut at another branch in the Queen's garden. "But would it be wise for the Lady of Buckkeep to have a lover? Folks would say she was trying to replace Chivalry, and that she'd doom herself to misery. You might think about it yourself, Queen Kettricken. A bed can get cold fast."
Kettricken gaped. "I loved my king! I carry his heir!" she said severely. "You overstep yourself."
Lacey nodded, averting her glance from the Mountain Queen deferentially. "My apologies," she said. "I get it from her, I suppose. Lady Patience was ever one to speak her mind, which is troublesome enough in a great lady, let alone a servant."
Kettricken nodded, feeling foolish. "I'm sorry, Lacey," she said. "I admit that I am unused to this custom, and it seems unnatural to me. But as you have said, there can be no more scandal for the Farseers. This is a sacrifice you and Lady Patience have made for your people."
Lacey hid her smile. Later, when she told Patience the very abbreviated version of this conversation, there would be much laughter over Kettricken's rationale for why she would have to tolerate what she couldn't much change. At worst, there would only be another month before she and Patience were off to Tradeford in any case.
6. Services Rendered
"Don't you ever worry that selling your sex might cause you to view it in a way that you don't find fittin'?" Kaylee asked, snuggling against Inara like a very large cat. "Alienated labor, that's the term that comes to mind."
A very large cat who had read Marx and listened to Mal a little too much. Inara smiled and stroked the girl's arm. "If I were a prostitute in the style of Old Earth, as Mal would have you believe, yes, alienation would be a very real danger, Kaylee," she said, braiding a ribbon into the elaborate up-do hairstyle. "However, as a Companion, my connection to my clients is on a different level than viewing my sexuality as a product or service. After all, there must be mutual interest for the joining to happen. Largely, I view my job as a cross between psychology and diplomacy, with some elements of fellowship and spirituality mixed in."
Kaylee considered that. "I think I'm gettin' it," she said. "The client might think he's payin' for sex, but the Companion turns that experience into learning new things, fixing snarls, opening minds and kind of teaching people. That sort of thing. Like how people think a ship's engineer just fixes broken engines, but the real job is understanding Serenity and keeping her in primo condition."
Inara smiled. "Yes, Kaylee, I think it's very much like that," she said, finishing the up-do. "Would you like to see how you look?"
Kaylee nodded, and when Inara handed her the mirror, her jaw dropped. "I look so beautiful!" she said, touching her kohl-rimmed eyes, the small silver bells jangling from her ears, the bright pink sari top. "Do you think Simon will notice?"
"I think your dear Dr. Tam would have to be blind not to see," Inara said, gently easing the girl back onto the pillow. "Are you sure you still want to do the rest?"
"As sure as I can be," Kaylee said. "After all, Simon's different from the kinds of boys I know. I want to have some idea of what that might be."
"All right, dear heart," Inara replied, easing down the loose, flowing pants Kaylee wore. "But I'm doing this for you to know what sorts of things you'll like, not to teach you how to please Simon."
"Well, gosh, yeah!" Kaylee said, surprised that there could be any doubt. "It's Simon's job to impress me. But what's the gorram use of having a fancy doctor if you don't know how to ask him?"
7. Fuck With the Eagles
Dear Diary: Now I know why they call it self-abuse!
Veronica slammed the diary shut. No. No she was NOT going to talk about this any more. Generations of future readers did not need to know why she knew why it was self-abuse.
Fucking Heather Chandler. Maybe she wasn't such a tease if you were a fucking dickhead trying to get a hummer, but Heather Chandler didn't give a shit about getting balled by guys. That was all about appreciating her social stock, so to speak. Play your cards right, give Heather what she wanted, and Heather would let you bang her. If Kurt Kelley's appreciative braying about Heather's pussy was any indicator, it was even a good time. Of course, Kurt Kelley wasn't exactly a useful barometer in knowing the sexual talents of the Westerberg student population.
Boys were so dumb sometimes. Give them a little, they thought you were the Second Coming. Veronica and Betty had talked about it in third period, just like normal. How Heather Chandler wasn't that smart if the way she got her popularity was being the school bicycle.
But then fourth period gym...Veronica groaned, fell back against her pillows, and closed her eyes. Heather in the showers. Heather's eyes half-closed, hands twisted in her hair, lathering sliding down wet skin...
"Sawyer!" the sophomore had barked. "Get over here."
Veronica swallowed hard. Had done what Heather Chandler said, even though Heather was a vapid cow with the IQ of a gnat. When she was five feet away, Heather had opened her eyes.
"Tell Coach I got my period," she said distinctly. "I just got good and fucked under the bleachers and I need to clean up."
Images flooded Veronica's brain, of Heather, eyes screwed shut, holding to the metal, biting her tongue so they wouldn't make noise, and it felt like the bloodflow had dropped from her brain to her...groin.
"Sure, okay," Veronica said, turning away. Heather smirked.
"Be a good girl, and I might show you what it felt like," she'd said. Veronica fled then, pulse thumping through her clit. Jesus, she didn't know if she wanted to kill Heather, fuck her, or just be her.
Five hard orgasms later, imagining all the permutations, Veronica still didn't know. All she could see was Heather's smirk and the promise of more...if she was good.
8. Madonna Complex
"I'm so sick of the press," Christina bitches, on her fourth martini, glowering at the rest of the people in the VIP room as if she could make them go away with the power of her mind. She could make them go away with the power of her wallet, but all that would accomplish is someone getting bitchy to a gossip columnist and Jonathan rolling his eyes at her later. "Good girl, bad girl...that shit is all in their fucking heads."
Avril nods along. Christina doesn't know what to make of Avril. She spent half an hour talking about Marilyn Manson changing her life, for Christ's sake, about he told her to be her-fucking-self, and the press would eat it up, and fuck them if they didn't. Which, whatever, sounds great, but Avril's kind of dumb. Not her fault, exactly, but Christina thinks maybe if she's so totally punk, she should be able to have an opinion on the fucking Sex Pistols. Christina hates punk, but at least she knows who Johnny Rotten is.
Then again, Avril is up for new experiences, including spending half an hour making out in Christina's hotel room, making these sexy little sounds, and that was fucking nice, after Jonathan being such a dick about things. He's going to be fucking pissed about her fucking around with the Minnie Mouse punk, but whatever. If he can't deal with her and who she is, she needs to know that already.
"Like these people even know anything," Avril says. "The other day, they said you had some kind of a Madonna complex. Probably just because you kissed her at the VMAs."
Christina has to teach Avril something better to do with her mouth and soon. And it's not like this place is jumping tonight, so it might be how to eat pussy without acting prissy. "Did they actually say madonna/whore complex?" she asks.
"Yeah," Avril said. "Madonna's not a whore. Or, she isn't now, so I think it's bullshit they say that. Who the fuck do they think they are?"
Oh. So needing another martini.
9. The Girl in Endsville
Pokey Oaks Kindergarten's field trip to Endsville had gone remarkably well. The girls had only had to vanquish one villain...a weird guy called Hoss Delgado, and that hadn't been so much vanquishing as telling him to leave them alone, they weren't for sale.
"What was up with him having a chainsaw for a hand?" Blossom asked. "I mean, that's weird. If strangely familiar somehow."
"Yeah, so weird," Bubbles agreed. "Don't you think, Buttercup?"
"I guess," Buttercup said, a million miles away. Bubbles giggled.
"You're thinking about that little boy, aren't you?" she asked. "Buttercup likes Bil-ly! Buttercup likes Bil-ly!"
"Do NOT!" Buttercup shouted, pushing Bubbles.
"It's clear you DO," Blossom said, ever the know-it-all. "You're blushing."
"Am not," Buttercup said. "I was thinking about Mandy ANYWAY."
"Ugh," Blossom said. "She was kind of weird, wasn't she?"
Buttercup snorted. That was Blossom for you. Truth, justice, the American Way, and not a lick of cool in her whole body. Mandy had been so cool. How many girls tricked the Grim Reaper into being their slaves?
"I thought Grim was funny!" Bubbles piped in, right on schedule. "He had a funny accent."
"It was Jamaican," Blossom said, nodding. "But... why Mandy?"
Buttercup squirmed. "I thought she was cool," she said. "Really tough, and funny, and how cool was that when she told Hoss to go away and he totally did. And she doesn't even have superpowers. That's the coolest part. And when she was all, 'I'm waiting to be impressed?' when you were talking to her?"
Blossom shook her head at her sister. "You have the weirdest definition of cool," she said primly. "Next you'll be telling me that you want your own Grim Reaper."
"It would be kind of neat to have him do our chores," Bubbles said.
Buttercup shrugged. "I wish Endsville was closer to Townsville, that's all," she said. "It would be cool to have a friend like Mandy."
Bubbles giggled, her hands covering her face. "Oooh, you like Mandy! You like Mandy, you like Mandy!"
"Oh, Bubbles, stop it," Blossom said, exasperated. "Leave her alone."
Buttercup snorted. "You guys are so dumb," she said. "At least I don't like icky boys."
She nodded. There. That ought to shut them up for a while.
10. The Soul of a Translator
"I love your name," O-Ren murmurs sleepily, her arm thrown over Sofie's waist. "Sofie Fatale. It's pretty."
They have been drinking rice wine and dining with Yakuza; it is a job that leaves Sofie drained and wakeful, speaking with her mistress' voice but having no power of her own. O-Ren speaks flawless Japanese, but at times she prefers to have Sofie speak it for her, so she may watch the faces of her crime bosses for their true thoughts. This is a matter of some delicacy, so Sofie is always perfectly formal, even when O-Ren speaks the most vulgar American idioms.
Tonight, it has been a year since O-Ren touched her with any passion, when Beatrix Kiddo's tainted memory had faded enough for O-Ren to touch anyone. At nights, Go-Go keeps guard outside their room, slumped and small, and Sofie undoes O-Ren's hair, letting it fall over high cheekbones and American freckles. Kissing her mistress' palm, drinking in the perfume of cherry blossoms and spices as she kisses her way to O-Ren's shoulder.
Their life together, such as it is, has a definite line, a starkness and delicacy like a tea ceremony. O-Ren worships Sofie's body as though it were another evidence of her Nipponese nature. O-Ren is not truly Japanese; for her, the culture is a beautiful artifact, to be possessed, rather than something as inborn as bones, and she consumes Nippon, more delicately than an American tourist, but with a fatal hope that if she tries hard enough, she will be Japanese, instead of half-Chinese, half-American, half-Japanese, and all Bill's making.
Sofie exhales softly, the moon shimmering over O-Ren's sleeping face, a strip of soft black hair falling over one eye.
She is so young, this one.
Sofie brushes O-Ren's hair back, falling asleep in the middle of the gesture, lulled by the softness of the night.
They are young, and together. Perhaps it will be enough.
11. Seventy-Eight Seconds
How long can you hold your breath?
Two fingers thrust deep, twisting, rubbing, swirling, finding all the sweet spots inside. So hot, she's (I'm) so hot that it's starting to be too much, wet and ready, so damn wet it's running over my fingers, making it harder to feel those fingers.
Greedy fingers. Closed eyes.
How long? No need for the belt around the throat, the gag in the mouth, that's all got the vague sketchiness of death, she's fucking me with those long fingers, callused from pulling the trigger, hold your breath, don't count.
If I have to, a quick hiccup of breath pulled in through resentful nostrils, coming delayed five seconds, ten, for that greedy brain needing oxygen, harder, rub it harder, come on Sydney, make me feel like we're in the car, squealing around the corner. I soaked myself, you knew it, you knew how badly I wanted to be shoved into the backseat, held down, and brought off.
I'm so hot, gonna die if I don't come soon, need to breathe, don't want to. Dizzy. There. Harder, rub it harder, God, another gasp, hit of air, no more no more I have to...please, yes, faster faster faster so close, my head feels like it's going to burst. Burning up. Fuck me, please, don't stop.
ohhhhhhhhhh....
The air rushes in like it's ice cold, sobbing breaths matching how hard I'm coming, yes yes, oh god, yes...yes.
Licking my fingers clean, exhausted. Damn Sydney Bristow. It's always her. I don't want it to be, but it's only that sweet when it's her.
Brief look at the clock. Seventy-eight seconds. New world record.
12. Infatuation
When the object of one's amorous intentions is a woman, it is simple enough to arrange a meeting. Simply complain that you must find new flowers to draw and make likenesses of, and that you haven't the heart to endure a large group. Indeed, it would make you ill!
Emma found herself using this technique more than once when it became clear that Mr. Knightley's gaze had turned too often on her blushes at Harriet Smith. How could he not see her charms? Natural daughter she might be, but so well-favored! So likeable!
"You make yourself vulnerable to heartache," is what Knightley told Emma one evening, and Emma flounced off, stung. Heartache? As if woman's affections were not prone to heartache in all cases. Marriages were settled on property and propriety, with natural affection being so little.
Harriet loved her so; had she not said it a hundred times? Would she not offer Emma the loveliest little bouquets on their walks? Didn't Emma pin them to her gown, as gallant as any lover? She must marry in a circle that would allow Emma to continue her courtship; for herself, Emma could not, nay would NOT marry with her father needing her so. She could not imagine being subject to the wishes of a man both as housekeeper and amoreuse.
"I must go early," Harriet said, rising from her embroidery. "I'm afraid there can be no walks today."
Emma watched her walk off, the door closing demurely. Her heart seized up at the sight of her dearest friend leaving her so unsatisfied. Yes, she would have a stomach-ache soon.
Oh, if she were only a man and did not have to resort to such tactics!
13. This is Not About Sex
If Mary Cherry finds out, she's so screwed.
Nicole tightens her grip in Lily's hair, which, surprise surprise, turns the little nerd on. Of course, it had been Lily's brilliant idea to have their dykeadelic tryst in the Novak anyway. So typical.
Lily's tongue brushes across Nicole's clit and Nicole can't help it, she squeaks. Where did she get so good at this?
To keep herself from moaning encouragement, Nicole considers what Mary Cherry will do. First, of course, there will be the ritual shunning, where Nicole will be replaced with non-dykey Nicole, who will be bought off with lavish gifts on Cherry Cherry's credit card.
There will probably be an assembly about the power of -- Lily plunges her tongue deep into Nicole's pussy and it shakes her almost to her knees -- heterosexuality. Never mind that everyone at this two-bit rat trap is flaming; it's not about sexuality.
Lily can lick as much of Nicole's pussy as she wants, and she's doing a good enough job at that, but that just makes Lily queer. It makes Nicole powerful, because Lily the Lesbian Licker is totally ruled by her dick. Nicole can flash a bit of her tits, and oops! No more annoying anti-fur posters on campus. She can pretend to bite on her longest finger, and Lily will forget all about whatever lame-ass cause she's crusading for and coming running the Novak.
With a little cry of surprise, Nicole comes. "Thanks, kid," she says as Lily gets off her knees, looking for a kiss she sure as hell isn't going to give. "That was better than sixth period any day."
Until Lily figures out it's about power and not sex, this is going to be a great gig.