The woman in Atlanta lowered her head as she told me about her Daddy. She loved her new girlfriend but couldn’t give up the woman who made her sigh in the humid Georgia night from unappeased need. She knew that her ex-Daddy was a dead-end road, but she couldn’t move past her dangerous desires into the simple, open arms of a new love. I sat in the crackling campfire of her story, asking honest questions and having my mind blown.
On the flight back home, I wondered if her story could ever be mine. I cast myself in the various roles of her drama to see which would be the most authentic. One scenario turned into another as the miles passed. By the time we landed, I had a new song, “Georgia.”
One of the most gorgeous aspects of humanity is the ability to create lush, amazing lives within. The human imagination is capable of so much more color, texture and possiblity than ordinary life can provide. The more we hear, read and learn, the richer our inner worlds become. Like children playing make-believe at an age when castles and dragons are thrillingly real, so can we layer our daydreams with exciting options.
So many great ideas were submitted for this collection, from all over the world. The stories I selected dove deeper into the realm where fantasy comes to life. Each of them has a twist that slides sweet Alice through an inviting hole into her own particular wonderland, with details vivid enough to melt the walls around the reader for an even better view.
Some took me beyond my comfort zone into dark places I don’t wander, but felt compelled to include for those who do, including sad-eyed Georgia girls torn between a rock and a soft place. These stories plunge into a moist landscape where each sentence is another slippery step deeper into a breathless, throbbing world where… well. You’ll see.
Read on.
II
Is there anything better than curling up with a good book?
Maybe.
How about a good book that succeeds in curling you up… from your hair down to your toes?
Imagination and sex go together like peanut butter and jelly. (Hey, that just gave me a couple of good ideas!)
Anyway, what a treat it was to go through these stories and make suggestions and choices for the final release, keeping in mind, of course, what kind of outcomes you all might enjoy to achieve your final releases. These authors conjure up a gaggle of gals in some truly delicious situations.
So, relax, and start turning those pages.
Enjoy a story or two by yourself, with a friend or a lover.
And when something or someone doing something or someone really special gets you going… if you want to thank me later, I bet I can think of something special I might like.
Oh, and that can be our little secret.
Bon appétit.
III
I’ve been sexually aggressive most of my lesbian life. It’s fun: I get off on getting girls off and I have no hang-ups (thanks to my parents’ openness and my mother’s rad feminist politics toward our bodies). It’s been fun. And sometimes one gets tired of that. I mean, flip me. I’m good at being a bottom. Don’t wait until you’re wasted to make the first move. Laugh about it. Share your fantasies. Get crazy. Not to say that I’m always Charles in Charge, cause how fucking boring is that? It’s nice to see that Lezbo erotica is getting betta and betta. That’s a great sign that we’re making choices for ourselves and we’re not afraid of what turns us on. Reading through some of these diverse and hot stories was fun, and some of it was a turn-on, which is sort of the whole point, right? I have to say, after dealing with breast cancer and heavy-duty treatments for the past two years, it takes quite a lot to get my juices flowing. But I’ll get better and my van will be rocking again soon. And some of the images from this collection will be right on the tip of my… well, you get the idea. Read on, and get off.
GIRONA, 1960
Stella Sandberg
It was in the Pyrenees that Jamie met another lone biker. She rode up next to him, making her engine purr suggestively, and he was in on it at once. They raced each other on narrow serpentine roads with the mountainside to crash into on one side and the cliff to tumble over on the other. The challenge made Jamie feel euphoric.
She’d been driving for days, farther and farther south, without being able to shake off a long winter’s restlessness. Now she realized this was what she needed: to push herself and her bike to the limit. She’d been driving fast—others might call it recklessly so—but she’d known what she was doing. She’d kept within her limits, not taking any risks, just riding as if going somewhere—as if she had a place to go where the feeling of freedom would await her. But that feeling could only be reached on the road, when she was riding for the sake of riding, not for the sake of getting somewhere. She’d almost forgot.
She felt some respect for the stranger racing her. He knew what he was doing too, didn’t risk his life with any crazy chances but maneuvered skillfully on the narrow road. His engine was weaker than her NSU Max. When he wasn’t breathing down her neck anymore she cast a glance over her shoulder and saw that he’d given up and slowed down. She stopped by the roadside, waiting for him to catch up with her, and he came and stopped next to her.
He wore one of those old-fashioned leather helmets with goggles, like a pilot. Jamie had only her dark shades, and her black hair so greased and slicked back the wind couldn’t touch it. He removed his goggles and met her gaze. She noticed he was fair and that his face was delicate and ridiculously well sculpted, like one of those Greek statues, an Adonis or Hermes or something. Either that, or… Katharine Hepburn in Christopher Strong.
“You too!” she exclaimed, the surprise making her voice lighter than she normally let it sound.
“Oh, I thought you a Spaniard.” the other butch replied, amused at the double coincidence.
They exchanged disbelieving grins and firm handshakes.
“Jamie.”
“Charlie,” the loser replied, adding cockily. “I’d beat you on my own bike. This one’s borrowed.”
She caught Jamie’s interest: “Oh, yeah? What’ve you got?”
“A BMW R24. Terribly outdated by now, I guess.” Charlie blushed, as if she was someone used to having the latest.
“That’s not all that matters,” Jamie said. “If you know it…”
“I know it!” Charlie asserted, “That is, I knew it… It was a long time ago.”
“You never lose it,” Jamie reassured her, thinking of how she knew her NSU Max, how she could read every change in its sound, every vibration under her palms and between her thighs.
While they spoke Jamie rolled a cigarette, which she offered to Charlie. Charlie accepted it and Jamie lit it for her, before rolling one for herself. The chivalrous gesture made Charlie blush again.
“If I’d met you when I was twenty I’d have become that way straightaway!” she exclaimed.
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “I hardly thought you were twenty now.”
“I’m thirty.” Charlie laughed, and the fine lines around her eyes supported her claim. “When I was twenty I thought girls were awfully silly. I had a crush on a young bloke with a motorbike, though I suspect it was mostly the bike I lusted after…. Had it been you with that bike I’d have realized one or two things….”