Growing up a gay girl in a small Bible Belt town was not easy, trust me. I tried it and cannot recommend it to anyone. In fairness, that was almost 20 years ago and it was harder then.(Sorry, I lapsed into "Get off my lawn" mode.)These days, lesbianism has attained a certain cachet. It's nearly impossible now to watch a movie orTV program without a lesbian (always an attractive one, I must add). Hell, we've replaced the wacky neighbor on sitcoms.(Suck it, Mr. Roper!) In my day, the closest to a lez on TV was Miss Hathaway on Beverly Hillbillies reruns.That sight alone almost scared me straight ... almost.
I don't remember when I first realized my sexuality. It might be the tingling I felt watching Laverne and her closeted lover, Shirley, holding hands, skipping through Milwaukee. Later, my 24/7 fantasies of Britney Spears erased the last vestiges and sealed my fate. I'm the most insecure woman on the planet, thus I didn't want to be gay. Paranoia set in, crushing me in its wake. I pictured classmates pointing and whispering behind my back. All I wanted was to be like one of the cool kids on Saved By the Bell. (Mmmmmm Tiffani Thiessen). But, I ruined any chance of that when I tried to organize a Donny and Marie fan club my freshman year.
Regardless, I fought to maintain my hetero facade, even trying out for cheerleader with dismal results: "Push Em back. Push em back. Way... line please." With other girls, I would discuss dreamy guys like Tom Cruise when I was much more interested in Penelope Cruz. For the record I don't hate men. I just don't want their vile, disgusting, filthy hands anywhere near me. Other than that, I'm fine with the losers. Lesbianism was a mystery to me.The internet was in its infancy so my research was very limited. I was truly a stranger in a strange land. No Netflix. I couldn't even watch lesbian classics like "Blue is the Warmest Color" or "Below Her Mouth."(Shout out to Audrey for that delicious nugget.)
Which brings me to my mother and the gut-wrenching coming out debacle. Each night I would pace my bedroom, sorrowful, like Game of Thrones fans after the lackluster series finale. At least I didn't have to face it alone. My potent strains of cannabis and a bottle overflowing with anti-depressants were there for me as always. Four joints and ten Xanax later (washed down with half a bottle of Jack Daniels) I careened my way to the kitchen where my mother was preparing her nightly delicacy, known to gourmets everywhere as Salisbury steak. With slurred speech, I told her we needed to talk.Those words alone made her weep. I was not optimistic.
Two psilocybin mushrooms later I finally revealed my secret. "We've suspected that for some time," she stated calmly, like I was telling her I got a D in calculus. I felt a huge weight lifted from my weary shoulders and could finally breathe again.That relief lasted all of two seconds before she broke into hysterical tears, whimpering, then pleading, "We will always love you, but don't tell anyone else or your life will be ruined forever!"
(Damn, Mom, you're harshing my buzz. How rude.) I immediately left her alone with her sorrow, stumbling back to my room, my own tears flowing. Adding to my misery, I discovered my vibe batteries were dead. (Fuck the Energizer bunny!) "What a perfect day," I muttered with a degree of sarcasm even Chandler Bing would admire.
I did take her advice initially. I told no one. I didn't want to be ostracized like a Chick-Fil-A rep at an Elton John concert. None of this secrecy curbed my desire for girl-on-girl shenanigans. I just didn't know where to start. Even our gym teacher was straight. I felt star-crossed like in an updated version of Shakespeare's "Juliet and Juliet." In retrospect, I know it's easier for gay girls than guys in a way because guys seem to like lesbians (or at least watching them.) But, I took little comfort there. Suddenly I had an epiphany. In order to find pussy paradise, I would need a much larger, more liberal city for experimenting. I settled on New York City.
Prior to travel, I sought research so not to be the penultimate tourist in the quaint land of Lesbos. I learned jargon like "Cunnilingus" and its naughtier cousin "analingus." Learning those wanton activities both excited me and led me to stock up on Listerine and Crest.The reference book I used was neither recent nor helpful. It referred to the clitoris as a "fictitious creation by a woman," not unlike Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. Other terms were listed but never explained like "scissoring." I surmised lesbians enjoy a peaceful evening clipping coupons after cunnilingus was a fait accompli. All I had were pinking shears, but I assumed they would still work. (Who the fuck even owns pinking shears?)
As my departure for the Big Apple drew near, I grew more anxious. On a nervousness scale of one to seventy, I was locked in at a solid 69. With my Colonel mustard-colored Chevy Vega packed and already leaking oil, I turned to my family to bid adieu. My bawling mother was silent but surreptitiously handed me rosary beads and patted my head like I was a rescue beagle seeking refuge. It was a sweet, sincere gesture, although confusing since we aren't Catholic. My two sisters stood behind her, each with their index and middle fingers spread wide, their tongues fluttering between them. (Very subtle, bitches!) Before leaving I checked my cassettes, making sure Ricky Martin was easily accessible. (Knowing with his epic talent, his career would obviously span decades.) Tunes from my current role models, k. d. Lang and Melissa Etheridge, rounded out my playlist.
With Shania Twain blaring from rattling, blown speakers, I waved to one and all thus beginning the most frightening travel adventure since Hope and Crosby embarked on the Road to Bumfuck, Egypt.Within five miles the pesky oil warning light came on and rudely refused to go out, but that was easily corrected by strategically placing a band-aid over the meaningless red light. ("She is an incredible problem solver," you must be saying to yourself.) Guilty.The next obstacle was the GPS on my smartphone, which had apparently developed dementia. I was driving north from Kentucky to New York so why was I suddenly cruising through Florida?
(I realize there are some non-sequiturs in this woeful tale, such as having a smartphone before they became commonplace but on a road trip fueled by ether, amphetamines, weed and Jolt Cola, my memory is as blurry as the Zapruder video of the JFK assassination.)To keep myself occupied, I concocted limericks (or was it a haiku?) in my head, but quit when I struggled with a rhyme for "discombobulate." (Feel free to list your rhyme in your comments.Treasured bonus points will be awarded.) Also, in those blissfully unaware days, I smoked cigarettes and was chain-smoking Marlboro's until my overflowing ashtray began to smolder like a smudge pot in an orange grove, before finally bursting into flames. Smoke was billowing from my car like a scene from every Cheech and Chong movie. Luckily, I had to pee so l was able to extinguish that potential disaster to the delight of passing motorists. Another problem solved!
Once I crossed the New York state line, my anxiety spiked, gripping the steering wheel so tightly it was no longer circular, now more like a crescent moon and with knuckles as white as legendary albino bluesman, Johnny Winter. (Seriously, how obscure will I get?) My mind was racing with visions of what might lie ahead. Surely even I can find a gay girl among seven million residents. If not, well I came for the pussy but could stay for the pizza and cheesecake. If I failed I would simply return home, secret intact, with my proverbial tail tucked between my proverbial legs. (I read that in Proverbs.) As my car limped into a parking lot in Manhattan, the second, and hopefully much more enjoyable leg of my coming-of-age adventure, could commence. It was early afternoon, but already raucous crowds were busy ... raucousing. I was in fabled Greenwich Village amid a very festive atmosphere. I was unaware of the occasion but vendors were set up on both sides of the roped-off street, doing brisk business.
Each one had many flags displayed, all rainbow-ish. I'm far from a vexillologist but I felt certain such rainbows could only mean one thing: the national flag of the merry ole land of Oz. I should have known with so many guys wearing Judy Garland tee shirts.The city felt so alive, gay even. Music seemed to flow from every direction. Back-to-back I heard "All the Young Girls Love Alice," "YMCA," "Lola," and "Walk on the Wild Side." But the most boisterous reaction came when strains of "It's Raining Men" lilted through Washington Square Park. Men, both young and old, razor thin and portly, formed a conga line, skipping and prancing around the iconic fountain to the adulation of on-lookers. It was a hot, humid day, so how so many men could cavort about in leather attire was beyond me. I was here on a mission, but I hated to leave this celebration. I knew it was a celebration because Kool and the Gang told me so through song.This was a people watcher's paradise but the yen to sin was strong with this one. So I moved on.
Walking down the boulevard, I stopped at a movie theater specializing in classic films. By the ticket window, stood a short, cute brunette who was lecturing revelers about which slasher movies have gay actors in prominent roles, but certainly not in a homophobic manner. More informative. She was so knowledgeable and emphatic, I could have ogled her all day until I suddenly remembered my quest which naturally made me curious about her sexuality. But, first I needed an ice breaker, a witty conversation starter so......
"Are you working hard or hardly working," I asked, amazing even myself with this clever approach.
"What the fuck are you talking about, bitch?" was her less than cordial reply.
Undaunted I went to Plan L, asking what the partiers were celebrating. She looked at me incredulously before asking, "You really don't know? Did you just get off the bus from Kentucky?"
"No, I drove.
She threw up her arms in disgust before, "It's Pride Week, rube!"
"Pride week? Like Pride and Prejudice? Is it Jane Austen's birthday?" Her face changed hues three times, finally settling on bright crimson, before providing more exposition.
"No, hillbilly. It's a celebration of the LGBTQ movement...and before you ask another ignorant question, it stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer and serves as a celebration of that lifestyle."
She certainly had my attention now. "So lesbians get top billing?" I asked proudly. "Are you a lesbian?" I continued with crossed fingers.
"Yes I am and don't oppress me," she ranted before hopping on a red, plastic crate, pointing at me before screaming to the celebrants, "Oppressor here! She's a homophobic oppressor!" I chose to flee rather than face their wrath and sprinted past the jeering throng. My escape was hampered by another short, brunette, blocking me and capturing my heart simultaneously. Her soulful eyes and bright red pouting lips looked fresh from a centerfold and/or my kinkiest fantasy. I was so captivated by her beauty I hadn't noticed her attire... a burlap bag. Noticing my bewilderment, she explained, "I'm in my avant-garde stage." Fucking artistic types, I sneered.Turning, I continued my quest. It was then I noticed New York City's finest watching the parade start up. I must admit the city was very unique in its choice of uniforms: a traditional policeman's shirt and Daisy Dukes. Not only were they law enforcers, they were also dancing fools. With Leo Sayer playing in the background each officer began dancing in perfect choreography a la "Singing in the Rain" or "Blazing Saddles."
They were maniacs. Dancing like they've never danced before. I half expected Kevin Bacon to emerge, telling us to cut loose. Standing there, observing, tapping my toes and gyrating like the kids on Charley Brown's Christmas special I heard someone clearing her throat.Turning, I did a double take, seeing a gorgeous, leggy blonde watching me dance... a term I use quite loosely. She was elegant and very professional looking and I harbored no illusions she was gay until...
"Are you here for Pride Week," she asked, her "Fuck me" eyes sparkling.
"Of course," I answered, looking around to make sure no one else heard me. Old habits are hard to break.
"Would I be too bold if I asked you to watch the parade from my apartment? I live in this brownstone with a perfect view of....anything you wish to see. Anything," she concluded with a smirk.
I never participated in track but I still managed to exceed ten feet now in the standing broad jump, clearing both her and half the stairs leading to her apartment. I would have made it to the top but black tar heroin has a tendency to make one quite lethargic. After letting us in, she poured coffee, bending over her Mr. Coffee, giving me ample opportunity to scope her magnificent bottom. Did l detect a slight wiggle? I stood there, mesmerized, drooling like the pervert I dreamed of becoming. We took our cups to the window, watching in silence, our bare arms touching. My heart was pounding like Clint Howard's at an adult diaper commercial audition. And feeling almost as desperate.
Turning to face me, keeping sensual eye contact, she whispered, "Do you have much experience?" I wasn't sure if she was hitting on me or asking for my resume. She offered her hand, introducing herself as Constance Sorrow. "Well?" she continued, never releasing my clammy hand, even tenderly caressing it unless I was finally hallucinating from the windowpane acid I ate for breakfast.
"Well, what?" I answered, hoping my witty repartee was not overwhelming my new bestest friend. She was so poised and self-assured, everything I'm not.
"Do you have much experience with another woman. Erotic experience?"
"Erotic or erratic?" She smiled and broke into the cutest giggle ever heard outside Pee Wee's Playhouse. I was smitten, tingling and trembling before her. As we both sipped, the caffeine fueling my boldness, I asked softly, "Are we going to do the cunnilingus now?" Perhaps I should have waited for her to swallow because she next did the greatest spit take in history. Her caffe latte flew in a perfect arc across the width of her apartment, a new North American record.
Apologizing profusely, I continued, "We can do analingus if you prefer. I would like that too."
"I'm sure you would," she replied as she mopped her sticky floor.
"To answer your earlier question, I have no experience yet but I think about it often."
"After today, you'll think about it even more, I guarantee."
She took my hand and jauntily led us to her boudoir. I didn't ask about the notches on her bedpost. I thought it might be the result of a scissoring accident.The handcuffs lying on the floor led me to believe she might be an undercover cop. Which was convenient because under her covers was to be my next destination. Joining me beside her classy, heart-shaped bed, Constance began undressing me with the sensual touch normally only found late-night on Skinemax.With the long-awaited moment now at hand, I was a physical and emotional wreck; my knees buckling, forehead bathed in sweat, and heart pounding like a punk rock drummer. With my head swimming, I grabbed her arm for support.
"I'm so sorry, but I'm having a panic attack. So embarrassing," I explained through my tears.
"No reason to be embarrassed. I've seen it before," she kindly said with merciful understanding. "I'm even prepared for it," she added, handing me a paper bag.
"Thank you so much." I took it, held it to my mouth and began throwing up, like an alky in a drunk tank.
The dreadful retching certainly caught her attention. Alarmed, she yelped, "You silly girl, you were supposed to breathe into it to help your hyperventilating, but I don't suggest you do that now. Perhaps brushing your teeth a few dozen times might be in order." After vigorously brushing and feeling refreshed, I walked about her flat, commenting on the shackles attached to her wall.
"It's a little hobby of mine. Some even call me Ms. Dungeon," she informed with a maniacal smile, eerily similar to the Joker.
"Ms. Dungeon? Are you one of those D & D nerds?"
I'm more D & S, you might say," she giggled as if to some inside joke. "But don't worry about that.You're a newbie so we will take it slow. However, we still need a safe word."
"A safe word?" I asked naively.
"Yes. If I am doing something you feel uneasy with, just say the safe word and I'll stop. But it must be a unique word you wouldn't normally say in the heat of the moment. Like, oh ...a city in Wyoming, for example."
"I didn't know Wyoming had cities."
"Of course it does. There's Cheyenne and...Casper. "
"Casper? Is that a ghost town?" I guess she didn't appreciate my cartoon humor because her next act was slapping my ass quite hard, leaving a bruise as a souvenir of Pride Week. Better than a cheap tee shirt by far. After the 47th spank it was an exhausted Constance who had to utter the safe word to my chagrin.Things progressed nicely after that. She patiently taught me every nuance of cunnilingus AND analingus. I even took extensive notes. Although my handwriting became as illegible as a Michael J. Fox autograph toward the end. All-in-all, my toe-curling orgasms (indeed plural!) made the excursion everything I had hoped for and then some.
I left home a horny girl but returned a horny woman. Damn! How long was I gone? (Akin to "how long is this fucking story?" you survivors must be asking as well.)
My entire outlook changed after my loss of innocence.I was now actually proud to be a lesbian and I haven't regretted it for a second. Like any relationship, hetero or gay, I've had some horrific losers. Our hearts break like anyone else. But, I am in an incredibly loving relationship now and pray it continues to flourish.I won't bore you any more than I already have, but for more background on that relationship, simply read my profile. It's probably the only honest thing I've ever written.Thank you, Karen.
This is a comp story so I would appreciate your votes and comments.There are many amazing stories here. Makes me wish mine was one of them. Also, please check out stories by Vanessa 26 and Audrey X. Both have been a great help to my writing as well as being treasured friends.Thanks, floozies. Both write amazingly well.You won't be disappointed.
