Read Online Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica by Tristan Taormino - Free Book Online Page A

planning on turning over a candy store?” I asked. She smiled, said the hat made her feel tough. But she was more of a sap than I was. When we passed the multiplex just as the feel-good movie of the season was about to begin, she begged me to go inside.
    â€œCome on, Rachel,” she cocked her upper lip at me. “Ever make out in the movies?”
    I didn’t have to answer. I’d always been urbane about movie going, arriving early to be coke-and-popcorned by the first preview and barring all communication once the lights went out.
On occasion, I’d even shushed a peanut-gallery commentator or two. But there I sat kissing in the back row like a clumsy adolescent, though not my adolescence for I’d never even kissed a boy until I was eighteen years old, and I never would have imagined that all the boys I’d kissed since then would be obliterated by one woman in a dark movie theater.
    We were feeling good, so much so that we skipped out before the movie ended—yet another filmgoer’s faux pas—and ran back to my apartment, forgetting that we’d originally come out for food and toilet paper.
    Home again, as if we’d never left the bed, I was overwhelmed by my craving for Shade, my longing to bind her hands and feet so she couldn’t leave. Yet, whenever I tried to express these feelings without sounding like the mildly neurotic, too-needy, intimacy-shy adult I was, my language retreated to the vapid patterns of pornolinguistics.
    â€œI’m waiting for this to blow up,” I said, moving my leg beneath her until I felt her on my knee.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThis you and me against the world thing.”
    â€œDon’t say that.”
    â€œIt can’t last.”
    â€œYes it can,” she said, and despite the barrage of phone messages we ignored, I believed her. I would have believed anything she told me with her body on mine, her fingers slipping inside me, and her teeth biting my nipples a little bit hard, which I discovered I liked. Though I couldn’t come, I felt closer than ever, beyond it even, the way the graze of a finger can, in the right circumstances, be more intense than a grasp. Still, there was the dark-continent part of me that believed our relationship would not be fully consummated until I had an orgasm.
    Day four, alone in the shower, I gave in and masturbated. Though it wasn’t the climax I’d wished for, I came in about
two seconds. It was insidious, a litmus test that left me feeling physiologically defective. A sexual misfit. Not like Shade who could come when I fucked her, but only if I used two fingers at about a forty-five degree angle so the base of my hand hit her clit and, even then, only after she’d gotten off once already some other way. This kind of specificity amazed me. Clearly, Shade’s was a sexual history spawned by trial and error, along with a few creative lovers all of whom I’d become insanely jealous of; jealous because they’d been with her, but also because of the things they’d done together. None of the men I’d been with even liked being on their backs.
    In all fairness I couldn’t blame them entirely. I never said what I wanted, what I liked, and through my frustrated silence I’d grown contemptuous of their easy orgasms. I’d lorded my frigidity over them as if it were a sacred cow. But it ruined me sexually. “I understand now,” Shade said. It was day six, and I’d finally confessed that I was indeed troubled by my not coming.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe other night, at the benefit. There’s just no letting go for you, is there?”
    â€œI guess not,” I looked up from the couch where I’d been clipping my toenails. She was sitting at the counter in my bathrobe, drinking a glass of orange juice and not reading a magazine.
    â€œIt’s all inside,” she pointed to her temple. “That’s the real sex organ, the rest is