she was eager for what’s called loving

I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what’s called loving as I was – more lost and drowned afterwards.

Jean Rhys – Wide Sargasso Sea

love making love to a woman

Many things as we have constructed them can be redefined and are neither correct nor incorrect. I love making love to a woman. I love her every quiver, her every movement, her every moan, her every breath. I love the journey my hands make over her every soft curve, the smell of her skin, and I revel in the feminine beauty, unmatched by anything else on this earth. But the core connection is what matters most and, while I don’t know what draws me to the essence of women rather than men or both, I wanted to be swallowed up by exactly that – the mystery of why we don’t want to be without each other. 

 Jackie Haze – Borderless 

we collide in passion

She feels me in sleep…I touch her in dream…her heart enticed…her body teems…the desire runs both…two ways and two souls…deep dark nights…where nothing can hold…we collide in passion…tasting and touch…rivers overwhelm…ecstasy’s rush…distance overcome…no matter how far…it’s to her I run…intoxicating allure…it knows no bounds…this addiction impairs…no cure to be found…except in her arms…calming the beast…which in me she stirs…she’s my only release.

B.T.

Elaine is thinking that it’ll stop in a minute, it won’t really happen, it won’t go too far…

The kiss, unbearably fragile, a spike of sensation, shoulders the frame. Everything Elaine thinks about who she is, what she is, is irrelevant. There are no words, only sensation, smooth sensation. Tender, like the tickling lick of a kitten. Elaine feels powerless, suddenly stoned. Pat is kissing her. She is kissing Pat. They are standing in the middle of the kitchen, giving and getting every kiss they’ve ever gotten or given; kissing from memory. Kissing: fast, hard, deep, frantic, long and slow. They are tasting the lips, the mouth, the tongue. Elaine puts her hands to Pat’s face, the softness of Pat’s skin; the absence of the roughscruff and scratch of a stale shave is so unfamiliar as to seem impossible. Pat rubs her face against Elaine’s — sweeping the cheek, the high, light bones, muzzling the ear, the narrow line of the eyebrow, finishing with a butterfly flick of the lashes.

Pat is at her breast. A noise escapes Elaine, an embarrassingly deep sigh — like air rushing out of something. Elaine can’t believe that she’s letting this happen; she’s not stopping it, she’s not screaming,

She’s enjoying it. Pat is kissing Elaine’s belly, tonguing the cesarean scar that no one ever touches. Elaine reaches for Pat — there’s an incredible strangeness when they touch simultaneously. Elaine can’t tell who is who, what is what — Marcel Marceau, a mirror game, each miming the other. Phenomenal confusion.

Elaine touches Pat’s breast, pressing. Her knees buckle, she collapses to the floor. Pat goes with her.

Luscious. Delicious. Pat is smooth and buttery, not like Paul, not a mass of fur, a jumble of abrasion from beard to prick. Pat is soft, enveloping.

Elaine is thinking that it’ll stop in a minute, it won’t really happen, it won’t go too far. It’s just two women exploring. She remembers reading about consciousness-raising groups, women sitting in circles on living-room floors, looking at their cervixes like little boys in circle jerks, women taking possession of their bodies. Only this is far more personal — Pat is taking possession of Elaine.

Pat is pulling Elaine’s pants off. Elaine is lifting her hip, her khakis are tossed off under the kitchen table. Pat is still in her robe. Elaine reaches for the belt, half thinking she will use it to pull herself up, she will lift herself up and out of this. The robe opens, exposing Pat.

Pat spreads herself out over Elaine, skin to skin, breast to breast. Pat against her, not ripe, repulsive. She almost screams — it’s like a living thing — tongue and teeth.

And Pat is on top, grinding against Elaine, humping her in a strangely prickless pose. Fucking that’s all friction.

She reaches her hand under Elaine’s ass to get a better grip. Crumbs. There are crumbs stuck to Elaine’s ass. Horrified, Pat twists around and begins licking them off, sucking the crumbs from Elaine, from the floor, and swallowing them like a human vacuum cleaner. “I sweep,” she says, wiping dust off her mouth. “I sweep every day. I’m sweeping all the time.”

“It’s all right,” Elaine says. “It’s fine.”

Fine if it’s only on the outside, fine if it’s just a hand. Fine if it’s fingers and not a tongue, and then fine if it is a tongue. Fine if it’s just that, and then it’s fine. It’s all fine.

They are two full-grown women, mothers, going at each other on the kitchen floor. A thick, musky scent rises, a sexual stew.

Pat’s fingers curl between Elaine’s legs, slipping in.

“Aooww,” Elaine says, combining “Ah” and “Ow,” pain and pleasure. It takes a minute to figure out what hurts. “Your ring,” Elaine pants.

The high diamond mount of Pat’s engagement ring is scraping her. Pat pulls off the ring, it skitters across the floor, and she slips her hand back into Elaine, finding the spot. She slips in and out more quickly, more vigorously.

Elaine comes in cacophonous convulsions, great guttural exaltations. She’s filled with a flooding sensation, as though a seal has broken; her womb, in seizures, squeezes as though expelling Elaine herself.

And just as she thinks it’s over, as she starts to relax, Pat’s mouth slides south, and Elaine is flash-frozen at the summit of sensation, her body stun-gunned by the flick of Pat’s tongue. She lies splayed out on the linoleum, comparing Pat to Paul: Paul goes down on her because he saw it in a porno movie, because he thinks it’s the cool thing to do. Paul goes down on her like he’s really eating her, like she’s a Big Mac and he’s got to get his mouth around the whole burger in one big bite.

Elaine is concentrating, trying to figure out exactly what Pat is doing. Every lick, every flick

causes an electric surge, a tiny sharp shock, to flash through her body.

She is seeing flashes of light, fleeting images. It’s as though she’s losing consciousness, losing her mind, dying. She can’t bear any more — it’s too much. She pushes Pat away.

A.M.Homes – Music for Torching

Your Hand Opens Me

Flat on our backs on the floor, boards hard as packed clay:
I've wanted to make love with you outside, your ass

sunk into a curve of dirt, my fingers sunk in you
up to the knuckles and palm: your hips, my feet
thrashing the leaves like some unknown animal just
out of sight in the bushes.
                                  Not tonight: we are quiet,
behind a door, away from the cold, the other women.

Quiet, your hand opening, opening me, to the width
of light made by one candle, opening my thighs
clenched against the night, an eye pressed to the window,
someone who might look at my secret.

                                                           I need
your hand moving in me, unpredictable hot fingers:
my throat opens, my mouth closes on sounds,
high, stretched, squeals as the swifts fall

in the chimney, jostled from their night roosts, thumping
behind the bricks: like my heels on the floor.
                                                  Sometimes
I'm afraid: when we make love or I write like this:
my need for you: that you'll look at me from the outside,

through the blank window and think how ridiculous: a woman
with face opened to a throat, words nothing but
squeal and thump.
                                I have been afraid: you have held me:
tonight your right arm between me and the harsh dusty floor,

your left hand pressing me open, praising my secrets.
You have loved me: so I can come to you again
like this: my need for you naked as me,
flat on my back, thighs open, against the boards.

 Minnie Bruce Pratt

a 21 year-old instant fuck

The first time I had real, official lesbian sex I fooled my suitor, a seasoned dyke whom I’d trailed secretly and incessantly until she led me to her king-size waterbed.  All it took was a 3 a.m. moonlit skinny dip in a cold lake, a few hits of marijuana, and two decades of desire.  I was hers, a 21 year-old instant fuck, a fresh groovy girl aching to be indoctrinated.  At the time I had a boyfriend with a big dick I enjoyed fucking, an engineering student who liked to wear black lace panties and pretend he was a she.  I moaned and rolled on that bed with fake satin sheets as she fingered my clit and watched me.  By sunrise I was a man-hating-lesbian and a witch-in-the-making.  Finally!

Along with my newfound freedom I discovered an incredible knack for good sex and sick relationships.  That first lover, with big white freckled breasts and a collection of long, split-ended hairs, got out quick.  She liked the chase and the hot hand work, but she scurried after she had psychic visions of my bratty bitch potential.

Ditched and dedicated to keeping my pussy in action, I cast a spell to attract another lover.  She literally knocked on my door, a hazel-eyed tomboy with a wide tongue and long inner lips.  She was new in town and she liked getting high and eating me.  I liked being eaten and delving into her firm rosy tits.  The only problem, as I would reluctantly discover, was that she was a budding psychopath.  One day, she held me hostage as I was leaving for school, and on another occasion she tried to smother me in my sleep.  After a few other Charles Manson transformations that ended with frantic 911 calls to the police, I moved out of town, far from her clutches.

My cunt, along with the rest of me, was just beginning to wake up.  No matter what I did, one of my priorities was getting it touched and filled and talked to.  I went to extremes to fulfill my mission and continued to fuck and emotionally entangle myself with a variety of women.  One was a tall jock, flat-chested and hairy with a girly laugh, solid biceps and enchanting musky pits.  The only way she could come was by grinding ferociously on my knuckles, upside down.  I could deal with that, but not with her ex lover, who followed us around and eventually won her back.

Then there was the lumberjack separatist who scrutinized my every move, kissed me with blackberry lips, and chilled me with her sour anger.  Another one, even angrier, was an alcoholic artist, a burly top who handcuffed me to a New York City Street sign and fucked me right there in the springtime.  One night she opened her wide legs and defences and let me fist-fuck her.  She stole my grandmother’s emerald ring, drank a gallon of Chivas, and claimed my only leather jacket as her trophy.

tatiana de la tierra – True Cunt Stories

drawing back and ramming in

Frog fucking. Her hands on my hips; my heels against my ass, legs spread wide; her face leaning into my neck; my hands gripping her forearms. Her teeth are gentle. Nothing else about her is. I push up on the balls of my feet, rock my ass onto my ankles, reaching up for every forward movement of her thighs between mine. Her nipples are hard, her face flushed, feet planted on the floor while I arch off the edge of the bed, a water mammal, frog creature with thighs snapping back to meet her every thrust.

My labia swell. I can feel each hair that curls around the harness she wears. I imagine manta rays unfolding, great undulating labia-wings in the ocean, wrapping around the object of their desire. Just so my labia, the wings of my cunt. I reach for her with my hands, my mouth, my thighs, my great powerful swollen cunt.

Her teeth are set, hips are thrusting, shoving, head back, pushing, drawing back and ramming in. I laugh and arch up into her, curse her and beg her. My feet are planted. I can do anything. I lift my belly, push up even more. Fucking, fucking, fucking. I call this fucking. Call her lover, bastard, honey, sweetheart, nasty motherfucker, evil-hearted bitch, YOU GODDAMNED CUNT! She calls me her baby, her girl, her toy, her lover, hers, hers, hers. Tells me she will never stop, never let me go. I beg her. “Fuck me. Hard,” I beg her. “You, you, you…Hard! Goddamn you! Do it! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

Jesus fucking christ don’t stop.

Don’t stop.

Dorothy Allison – Her Body, Mine, and His

walk around totally nude

I’m 42, married, 2 kids, grown and now out of college. I have kept in really good shape, I’m in the gym 5 days a week. In the changing room one day I saw this girl probably in her early 20s who was totally gorgeous, no makeup and still beautiful. She too had pubic hair unlike most who are totally bare. I’ve never kissed a woman, or felt a girl up not even as a young girl. I couldn’t help watching this girl move. When she shed her clothes, she would walk around totally nude, not caring at all who saw her and why should she? Her body was incredible. I couldn’t help watching her. I walked to the shower and one day she was bending over and I “accidentally” brushed my pussy against her ass and it felt electric. She stood up and excused herself for taking up the whole space and I told her it was nothing, it was no problem. She replied “not for me either”. Even her voice was sexy. I was in the shower and she, naked still walked over and was talking to me in the shower. Asking about what shampoo I used. I actually got wet in my pussy as I stopped covering up and let her see me. Her eyes were taking my body in and I was doing the same with her.

It took a couple of weeks but I relaxed and we would stand or sit naked in the change room and talk, she came into the showers with me, and offered to soap me up behind, and I returned the favour, we both spent extra time on each other’s ass and soon we were soaping each other all over. From there we went to her apartment nearby. I’d never had any lesbian experience and I told her, she admitted she was lesbian and had only had two boys in her past as a mid-teen and then we made love. It was unlike anything I’d experienced. Touching her, feeling her, sucking her nipples, lightly grazing my fingernails on her skin, then licking her pussy for the first time. I am hooked, I’m cheating on my husband with a 26-year-old girl.

Anon – Adult Confessions

her beautiful green eyes

“Last time I did this, I was in a terrible place, and I wasn’t very kind and I wasn’t ready to love anyone. You were right to say no and I’ll understand if you say no again but I hope that you won’t.”

She takes a step closer to me.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?” she asks.

She smiles just a little, a hopeful, sweet smile, but somewhere buried in it is that confidence that slays me.

I say yes and she says yes? and I nod and she touches my waist with one of her hands and I touch her face with mine, that spot where the sunlight landed on the day I really saw her. We don’t kiss right away. Instead, there’s a moment when we just look at each other, the moment where, if this were a movie, the music would start. And surrounded by all of my careful details, everything still just a little more perfectly placed than it would be in life — the plants that cascade down the wall in their charming pots, the deep-sea curtains and the colorful jars, the fairy-tale sofa with its gold vines and plush cushions — and Ava’s movie-star face, her Clyde Jones nose and her freckles and her beautiful green eyes, this could be the scene in the movie that everyone aches for. The moment where the thing that you wish for becomes the thing that you get.

When we tip our faces to the side, we do it in the perfect movie way — no awkward repositionings, no pressed noses. I swear: I can hear the music swelling.

But then.

Our lips touch. The imaginary music goes quiet. The room is only a room and we are the miracles. Her mouth is warm and human and soft, her hand presses hard and insistent against my back, her breasts press against mine. My hand grazes the delicate line of her jaw; there’s the whisper of her hair against my fingers as we kiss harder.

Nina Lacour – Everything leads to you

tangled up together

Making love with a lesbian, one of the things that turned me on, wildly and stupidly, was the thought that ‘no man will ever have this…’

When we tangled up together, all long limbs and smooth skin, when I traced her amazing breasts, when she thrust her cunt into my mouth, when she reached to kiss me, when she showed off her perfect body, when she writhed with pleasure, when she made that ‘ohhh’ sound of arousal, when she moaned, when she fucked herself on me, when she tensed all of her muscles and came for me.

Particularly when my mouth tasted her cunt, when she reacted to my tongue, when she arched up for more, when her nipples hardened under my touch, when she made helpless inarticulate sounds for me.

All of that.

“No man will ever have this.”

I don’t know why it turned me on, that thought, but it did. By god, it did. Somehow the knowledge that some imaginary man would never have what was mine was ridiculously hot. An unhealthy thought perhaps, but my goodness, so hot.

I was right.

No man ever did.

I am somehow stupidly happy about that.

Sharyn Ferns – No man will ever have this