His hands slip over her, laying her bare on the stone, teasing and spreading her body in reply to his. His caresses are a torrent of regret and discovery. She picks shyly at the buttons of his shirt, at the buckle of his trousers. It is her last positive act before he invades and devours her. As he enters her, her legs curl around him in welcome. His muffled kisses travel her breasts, her neck, her mouth. He tastes her skin. She judders in his arms; sweet abandon. He still does not ask her name. Beneath the impact of his caresses, she becomes malleable like plasticine. He pulls her upright in his arms to sit on his lap. Her legs tighten enthusiastically around his waist. The figure of Christ looks down on them in blessing. They move in unison, excitement building. Almost. Almost… And then he leaves her, momentarily bereft, to stand her leaning in front of the statue, her back naked to the cool stone. She is now rag doll, propelled only by his passion. His whole body roars at her; a threshold of pain, and then twin cries. A brief moment of recollection shifts and collides in his mind. He falls in love with her. He feels his old life fall from him, like a useless garment. He rocks her in his arms, stroking her hair, kissing her lips and neck, teaching her true ownership. She is pliant, exhausted and joyous. She smiles up at him, a strange familiarity mixed with the unknown.
Hand in hand they walk back to the bay and go, fully dressed, straight into the sea to swim together. By now the sun is hot. As they emerge, their light cotton clothes dry on them. They walk back towards the cafe. They have both decided to be brave, to explain.
His wife is no longer sitting alone. The man at her table rises to greet him. “Hello, my friend, I thought I recognized you earlier. It must be years since we last met, not since I left for America.” He turns to the dark-haired girl at his friend’s side. “Oh, good, I see you have already met my fiancee. How was the view, darling?”
His wife also smiles up at him, no longer ill-tempered. “Was it wonderful…?” she begins enthusiastically. But the question dies in her throat.
Wanting that Man by Karen Taylor
From almost the first moment I spotted him, I wanted to suck his dick. I know, not appropriate behaviour from a lesbian. But then, he wasn’t an ordinary man, either. I knew that when I saw him that first time at the dyke bar, surrounded by women. And what women! I mean, I go to the dyke bar for company and to get laid, but a lot of these other women go there to get away from men. Years of anarchist politics, progressive city governments, and low-cost lands made the I-5 corridor a haven for lesbian separatists in the 70s and 80s. Although not many of the wimmin I hung with had been part of those early years, Seattle’s lesbian social system was still influenced by decades of separatist politics. While I didn’t mind men, most of the women in here would be steering away from anything with a whiff of testosterone. But there he was, surrounded by babes, laughing and drinking a beer just as naturally as if, well, as if he wasn’t the only man in a dyke bar.
I watched him carefully. He was handsome, in a boyish way. Lanky body, dark curled hair cut short in the back and on the sides, a moustache resting gently across his upper lip. The contrast between the dark hair and the flash of his white teeth when he smiled or laughed was a delight. His hands were delicate, with long fingers that caressed his beer when it was resting on the bar counter. He didn’t preen, the way I see straight men preen when they’re surrounded by women. His crotch didn’t thrust out aggressively, the way gay men sometimes do when they’re in unfamiliar territory. His hip remained cocked against the bar, one boot kicked on the railing. I watched, long enough to enjoy the lazy shift of his weight from one side to the other, turning away from me, giving me a lovely view of a tight, hard ass. One of the women spanked it jokingly, and he laughed, twitching his butt back and forth a few times in rhythm to the music.
I think that’s what did it. The flirtatious move of that ass had me transfixed. I wanted to spank him, too! I wanted to touch that ass, caress it, and move my hand slowly around to the front… and realized, in a flush of embarrassment, that I was in the midst of daydreaming about sucking a man’s cock while I was standing in the middle of a lesbian bar.
Well, I’ve never been afraid of my psyche. I decided I had to know this guy – and soon, whispered my hungry cunt. So I asked one of my friends, when she stepped away from the group.
“I knew him back in San Francisco, when he was still a butch dyke,” she said, and I had a sudden sense of dizziness.
“You’re telling me -” I started, and she laughed.
“Yeah, that’s right, he used to be a she,” my friend explained. I turned again and stared openly at the man at the end of the bar. Was he lanky, or slender? That smile pleasant, or sweet? Something about the face seemed feminine. Or was it? The body language was definitely male. Or was it? Lucky for me, I’m not shy. I introduced myself when it was convenient. I bought him a beer.
“I’m Kate.”
“I’m Larry,” he answered, smiling. I wondered what his name used to be. But when I shook his hand, I stopped wondering. His palm was smooth, his hands strong. Those fingers… I was sure those fingers would feel wonderful in my cunt. And with sex so strongly on my mind, I dropped my eyes briefly to his crotch.
Bad move. Because when I looked back into his smiling, inquisitive eyes, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years about any guy. I wanted him. I wanted to take him home and fuck him. I wanted to suck his dick, feel him come in my mouth. I wanted that man.
You have to understand. I haven’t wanted a man, not for years. When I get the urge for penetration, I use dildos or fists, just like any other healthy, horny dyke. I had separated my desire for getting my cunt filled from my desire for a penis. But Larry’s presence made me remember the joys of cock-sucking. Remember the way a living dick pulses in a wet, hungry mouth. The hot, sucking sounds as my lips would tighten or loosen around a cock shaft, tugging on the head while my tongue would tickle a wet piss-hole. And especially remembering the tension in the flesh just before my mouth would fill with hot, salty come. I wanted that again. And the urge was so strong I could barely keep up my end of the conversation.
Lucky for me I can sometimes keep my cunt and my brain separated – or at least act like it.
“It’s strange to see a guy so comfortable in a dyke bar, Larry,” I said. “Most of these wimmin would rather spit at a man than invite him in. You’ve got balls walking in here.” I winced internally. Maybe I should have used a better term. But Larry just smiled back, ignoring my possible faux pas.
“I’ve got a lot of friends here,” he said. “Some of whom have known me for a long time – back when I was still living in California. I’m up visiting for a few weeks.”
“Good,” I said recklessly. “I mean, good that you’ll be here for a while.”
“Is it?” he asked, still smiling. I noticed this close that his eyes were green, with gold flecks dancing in the irises.
“Yup,” I answered. “Because, Larry, my new friend, I think you’re very attractive.” Larry chuckled, pretending great shock.
“How un-lesbian of you!” he said in mock horror. “Attraction to a man! Unless,” he said, “you’re thinking I’m not really a man.” I saw that under his joking demeanour there was something else.