My Lesbian Girlfriend

It was news to me. News she told me right after I'd railed her for thirty minutes, as we lie on my bed staring at the fuzzy sleeve of dust on my ceiling fan.

"You should probably know I'm gay," she said—but only after we'd caught our breaths... after the third time we'd fucked the shit out of each other. "I haven't had sex with a man in over nine years."

Nine years old was the approximate age of her son—the flesh-and-blood proof that she wasn't always a lesbian, not every minute of her life anyway. And certainly not with me, not on this night.

...Within the first few weeks of moving to Austin, I had little to do in the evenings but squander cash and kill time at the pool hall a few blocks from my apartment. The idea was to score up a game with one of the many UT girls who blew in after 11 p.m. It was the thing to do, I reasoned, because pick-up games of pool involved drinking, and drinking involved talking, and talking led to getting-to-know-you...

This plan was busted wide open (in the good way) on Day One. Because the bartender named Heather, a tiny and more human version of Liv Tyler, clocked out and joined me on the other side of the bar to gamble for Jaeger shots while playing onscreen PubQuiz. By 2 a.m., we were shagging in the back of my car outside of her apartment. She did not invite me up to her place. But this is another story for another day.

The subsequent drought over the next four weeks would have been painfully awkward had I shelved my pool shark plan altogether in hopes of becoming a repeat offender with Heather. But I stayed away from PubQuiz at the bar, and stuck to the tables. No supplementary come-ons from Heather, and no desperate maneuvers on my part. So for 27 days straight I found myself walking home alone, shaking the ashes off my freshly charred credit card.

Finally on a breezy night in late May, I struck gold, challenging two pert and saucy minxes to a game of cutthroat. In any given duo, one girl is always cuter than the other, and I made sure to keep my balls on the table long enough for the cutest to pocket them at her leisure. And pocket them she did.

This girl dressed and moved like the inverse avatar of Lara Croft, and I came to learn she was actually trying to bust a move on the other chick. I thought they were long-time friends, but the average-looking girl suddenly dismissed herself when she noticed us getting touchy-feely. It also turns out the cute one lived in my apartment complex, one building over from me.

That night I went home and fell into my neighbor's vagina. But not until after we sat down for a nightcap with a few more beers and a half-hour of Half Life 2. (I cannot express the glee I felt when she told me she also owned a PS3.) Everything was going just Jake and, before I knew it, she was pulling down my pants and pushing me back on the bed.

I was somewhat baffled when, squeezing her tits which popped deliciously from the top of her tank-top, I watched her grip the base of my cock with two hands and suck on it like it was made of manna and she was six days out in the Judean Desert. It wasn't so much that she wasn't doing it very well (which she wasn't) but that I noticed she was shivering as she hunched over my junk, kneeling on her hams. She wasn't diddling herself—what with the two-handed style she had going on—yet she was vibrating like a tuning fork. She shuddered so ferociously while she sucked that I asked if she were okay.

"Yeah," she panted, "I just came. I just came by sucking your fat cock," she said, smiling up at me.

"How about that..." I murmured.

I should note that when a girl looks up at you after feasting on your manhood with the whites of her eyes gleaming in the dim light of a boudoir—her eyes gleaming in a way that conveys much more than a lascivious overture or a meaningless act—it's as if ten years are removed from your life. And when a girl tells you she reached orgasm by sucking your dick, you might just have to take a shiv to your ego the next morning to make sure your head (the one connected to your spine) is properly deflated.

Anyway, she told me she just came by sucking my fat cock. And then I said to her, "Well imagine what's going to happen when I put my fat cock inside your smoldering hot pussy." (We had evidently advanced to the talk-dirty-to-me phase of our relationship.) I knew her pussy was smoldering hot because I'd pushed my shin up into her groin, and it felt like a grease-fire were underway, even through the denim of her Daisy Dukes. Only someone who looks like you can pull off wearing those anymore, I thought. I did not share this thought with her.

Still clutching its shaft, she kissed the underside of my dick's head which was now as swollen as a wild apple; she kissed it with a parting gesture of adoration, like she might do to a week-old puppy. Then she clambered over me peeling off her shorts, not bothering to shed her panties. She just tugged those to the side, revealing the luscious pink fruit of her cunt, shaved clean and giving me the shameless muted scream of a cunt starved for cock. And I knew this because her eyes were screaming, too. Yet I still hadn't grasped the weight of it all—not hitherto being privy to the lesbian aspect—and as she lowered her own delicate weight onto me, she came again, almost instantly.

"Oh my god, oh my god," she gasped. This girl invoked The Divine with frequency during sex. Very religious was this Olivia. ...Her name was Olivia, by the way.

Her enjoyment was so intense that it fomented a kind of paralysis. She could only rock back and forth slightly, freezing suddenly and shushing me while I laughed at her, shuddering all the while, biting my shoulder and intimating through gritted teeth that it was nearly too much to take. On the verge of sobbing, she was, in her paroxysm of ecstasy. And I hadn't even begun to really fuck her yet; I wasn't in my own element as a "bottom."

I reminded her of this and she suddenly apologized and leapt off me, hustling to get back into her shorts.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa!" I hollered. Whatever the hell I had said was surely no more obnoxious than that bit about her bubbling hot quim.

"Sorry—I got knocked up at 19," she blurted. "I love my son—I just can't afford that to happen again."

"Ohh," I sighed with relief. "You're in luck because I had myself snipped two years ago."

"Really? A vasectomy?"

"An elective vasectomy," I nodded. "I don't want kids... No offense to your boy, of course."

She relaxed but it was clear the session was over. I would have to go to bed with a pair of balls as blue as the Aegean Sea. Now that she'd gotten her nerve-endings chafed ragged with pleasure, now that she'd gotten hers four or five times in the space of ten minutes.

Or so I thought. After circling the room, she returned to the bed and told me to stay. I felt silly with my dick pointing to the sky like it saw a UFO, but she took care of that by grabbing it once more and giving it the stroke. She kissed me, and this she was extraordinarily good at, in my experience. A supernatural kisser, in fact. The swath of her tongue beneath my tongue shot a tingling jolt from the base of my spine up to my eyeballs. ...I was hoping beyond all hope that she'd want to play Hide The Salami again.

She did. This time fully naked. After kissing me deeply and sliding her palm up and down my cock, she suddenly spouted, "Okay. You promise you can't get me pregnant?"

"Not without extremely artificial insemination."

"Okay," she smiled. "This time you can pin me down, and hold me by my throat." (Holy shit, I thought.) "And when you come, squirt it on my tits." (Fuckin A.) I had a freak on my hands.

And, minutes later, after squirting enough unfecundated cum on her tits to fill a Jackson Pollock canvas, that's when she dropped the gay bomb on me.

"You should probably know I'm gay."

"Interesting," I said. "I don't care if you're gay."

And as I slid it in for the fourth time, she gasped and furrowed her brow in a way that signals both alarm and overwhelming pleasure. I kissed her between the eyes. I didn't give a damn if she were native to an extrasolar planet, and her son was an octopus.

* * * * * * * *

We did a lot of drugs together that summer. It seemed the one pill she wasn't on was The Pill. Which of course was a moot point with me. She indulged in everything and abstained from nothing. I knew she came home with at least two girls on different occasions in July. Naturally, I was heartbroken—mostly because she didn't invite me to join them.

The complexity of Olivia was remarkable. The bumper sticker on her black Ford Ranger advertised the First Unitarian Universalist Church of Austin... which was right next to her bright orange University of Texas Longhorns sticker. She wasn't a Jesus freak—I knew this much. More like a spiritualist, and while I spent the entire summer with her, I was wholly unclear on her concept of God. She never really talked about the church, in spite of her bumper sticker. I envisioned her fellow congregation at FUUCA all dressed in jumpsuits—even the men—celebrating the happy, joyous (ironic) wonder of being drug-free. Ironic because she smoked at least one joint a day... in spite of jogging 10 miles a week in the Hill Country of Central Texas. And she never wore a jumpsuit.

She hailed from Chillicothe, Missouri and sitting next to her on my futon, looking at her profile, her aerodynamic features and her quick, clipped way of speech, she evoked for me a life on the range, of infinite rows of corn and a continual threat of tornadoes. Not a hillbilly, not a redneck—like those I knew so well from the verdant musky backwoods of Kentucky, but a farmer's daughter. She brought to mind the word dell, as in the "farmer and the dell." Except I wondered what the hell a dell is. (It's a small wooded holler, which must be a rarity in Chillicothe.)

The way she described it, there are boxcars on long flat railways in broiling afternoon heat, a horizon with as many trees as the surface of the moon, prodigious ribbons of pink clouds at sunset over bales of hay, cricketed nights on spindled wrap-around porches, arresting starshine from the Milky Way, there are roosters crowing at 6 a.m. and the strong scent of eggs and thick fried bacon served on gingham tablecloths. It is always 100 years ago in Chillicothe, Missouri.

Her son, the biblically named Emmanuel, came over three nights a week, whence she played it straight. We all played video games together, and the boy was killer at Pictionary because he was some kind of artistic savant. He was rail thin. Had his mother's bones. But even at nine years old, it felt like you were in the room with a miniature tweenager and his much older sister.

Before Emman, she spent some time in Indiana in the Army Reserves. In both Missouri and Indiana. I teased her that she was actually from Lesbiana; and she liked that. She tried to kill herself with Trazodone at 13 and then slit her wrists at 16. She showed me her scars but I didn't asked why. Her parents had divorced when she was 10. Her fantasy was to bag two hot blondes at once...

"What made you land in Austin?" I asked.

"I was chasing a muse that didn't pan out," she said. "I'd rather not go into it. But four years later I'm still here."

...She, Emman, and I would shoot pool, play video games, play Pictionary, go swimming. Go to the Comal and laze in the sun, then tube-surf the rapids. When I walked her home sometimes, at her door she would say, "Sorry I'm so tired tonight."

"That's okay, man," I told her. "I'm not up to shagging either."

This is how it was for Olivia and me.

* * * * * * * *

In August, having not heard from her almost two weeks, I started feeling like a little bitch. Meaning that I missed her. And I wanted to impress her—rekindle whatever slow burn there was. There really was no slow burn because despite her amour for my equipment, I did not have the right face. I even lacked certain parts that she rightfully relished. But it wasn't just that I wanted to resume with the fucking... I wondered about her disappearance. She was one of my few campaneros, after all. Had she met someone? The answer to that is Yes. More on that later.

On this sultry Tuesday evening, I enticed her over with a dinner prescribed by Don Juan himself, or so I'd heard on NPR. It was Valentine's Day, after all, but that was truly incidental. Salad, seasoned mac n' cheese, and kalamata aioli bread. Let's carb-load before the calisthenics... It didn't hurt that I also had two bottles of red wine and a pair of 30mg Adderall.

After dinner, it was more Half-Life 2 and all the zany, unsettling suspense that comes with it. This was a plus because the game always brought us closer, our knees nudging on the couch. Forty-five minutes after snorting the Adderall, we put the controller down, and the wine glasses down, and started kissing. And amidst kissing, for reasons unknown I broached a discussion on Creationism and Intelligent Design—just as I was peeling off her short shorts.

"Well then, Harry," she proposed firmly, "What do you think of Intelligent Design?"

"I call it Nature with a Capital 'N'," I said, pulling up her t-shirt. "But by whatever means things came to be, He or She obviously was a genius in more ways than one. Take oxytocin for instance."

"Oxycontin. Yes, great body-buzz but too addictive. I won't go there."

We continued kissing.

"Not oxytocin. Oxytocin. The 'bonding hormone' they call it. It's released by stimulating your nipples, see?"

I stimulated her nipples, with my tongue.

"Oh... Yes, I see," she said.

Her nipples were so hard they snapped back into place after I puckered my mouth around them, and gently tugged at them with my front teeth. They were fleshy and bulbous, like two Yucatan pearls.

"Oxytocin, you see, is essential in creating the warm-fuzzies that women get with their babies while they breastfeed. Or even when you feel a surge of camaraderie among fans at, say, a Longhorns game."

"Got it," she muttered, as I pawed at her simmering snatch. I slid one finger around her pantyline into her molten canal and groped for her G-spot, the juice channeling toward her taint.

"But mostly," I added, "this chemical is a very private chemical."

"Right..." Her eyes were closed as she elegantly wrapped her legs around my waist.

"It also manifests in large quantities when you've experienced vaginal tenting and subsequent release." I continued to suck on her tits—the left one, then the right, squeezing them together and swathing my tongue seamlessly over those pinkish pearls.

"Keep doing that..." Off came her panties.

"So, vaginal tenting," I continued, "occurs as you approach climax."

Her breathing was like the billows from an industrial fuck factory as she reached down and spread her pussy lips. I could hear the wetness of her little petals opening up, and it's as if my dick had ears because it too pointed eagerly toward that sweet sound. She grabbed my hand and dragged its fingers across her clit.

"Go on, Professor," she sighed.

We kissed more. I went on: "But first you have to—"

With her other hand she clutched my cock and nosed it into her wetness.

"Yeah, you get the idea," I said.

I only allowed her to put in the tip, primarily to amuse myself. I always snicker at the expression "just the tip." Every young man at one point in his life beseeches his lover with the irrefutable benefits that come with putting in "just the tip." (Especially if she hasn't got around to putting it in for you.) But for now I exploited—and very much enjoyed—the idea of teasing her. She had, after all, been bereft of cock for nearly ten years, and mine had enough lead in its spine to make up for a decade of lost time.

The futon didn't make our position any less awkward, but we managed. Her hands slid over my back like she was playing a harp. I continued to nibble her nipples and run my tongue up the curve of her neck, with the heft of my gourd poised friskily above her pelvis. She writhed and her breath shook—as did mine—while I plunged the helmet just an inch inside her taut pussy lips. I could feel the rim of my dick's head snugly tickling the apex of her syrupy vulva. I pushed in about two inches and she gasped, our commingled junk now making that sweet noise again. I backed it out to the pinnacle, to where we barely remained touching, and I envisioned the arc of a molecular chain linking us together through our nervous systems at that very point on our bodies. Truly like the electronic contact points on the stylus of a lubricated, vibrating machine, with the heat of the arc traveling at one-million parsecs per second.

"I love that sound, Olivia," I admitted, nuzzling in one more inch, up to the base of my frenulum, and then backing it out to hear it slurp.

"Uh-huh," she moaned. "So do I..."

I assumed she was reflecting on her hand buried in another woman's gash as much as the gooey brouhaha coming from her own.

"But..." I thrust thrice more with only the prow of my prick, short jabs.

"Fucking put it in! What are you doing to me?" she cried.

I laughed, and gave her a slightly deeper, exploratory probe, Kegel-flexing my cock to rub its rim against her clit in a delicate prodding motion. Only another inch or so deep past the helm. And now she gripped the trunk of my shaft and pulled on it, but I threw it in reverse. I was building up to a full plunge, but it would happen when I was ready... or when I knew she needed it most.

"God—" she whispered.

"Yes. Yes, we were talking about God, remember?"

After Janis Joplin played through my JBL speakers, My Legendary Girlfriend by Pulp came on; this was no coincidence. And, in the refrain, I was singing this song in my head as I shoved every inch of my meatloaf into her body and held it there, just flexing it and concentrating on the sheath of her pussy skirting the girth of my dick. "My lesbian girlfriend, she is crying tonight..."

Olivia gasped. Her eyes were two fermatas beaming into mine, her mouth parted, her breathing staccato. When I began ramming myself into her full-throttle, she shrieked and braced herself against the armrest with one hand. I felt the expanding puddle of juice emanating from her twat onto my thighs. Fucking Olivia sounded like a dog lapping water out of a bowl.

As she squealed, I had to squelch the rising tide rippling through my balls because almost nothing is as come-inducing for me as the sound of a woman losing her mind in the throes of pleasure—specifically when its pleasure is caused by my body grinding into her body. No tools, no special sauce—just cock filling up pussy. Flesh consumed by flesh. "And it's free," as Pete Townsend sung.

But of course Adderall was doing its thing. So I began doing math whilst fucking her. Somehow, a coffle of engineers wearing yellow hardhats came to mind; they were laying pipe. It was as if I had synesthesia, because the hats barked sporadic notes in C sharp, an hallucinatory chorus of sopranos.

I began counting my pumps. Pumping at 15 thrusts per five second intervals yielded 180 thrusts per minute. And approximately 7.25 inches of cock (heretofore known as "pipe")... times 180 thrusts meant 1,305 inches per minute, which is 112.5 feet per minute... Um... times 60—means 6,750 feet... amounting to a total of 1.28 miles of lain pipe in the course of 12 minutes.

"God, oh God!" she exclaimed, which interfered with my arithmetic. Bringing her Higher Power into this seemed antithetical to my sciencey calculus.

At this rate, I reasoned, I would lay 3.84 miles of pipe into my lesbian girlfriend, without so much as leaving one inch between us even for a nanosecond. I needed to scale it back to get to a square number. At a more leisurely 145 thrusts per minute, I could lay about 3.2 miles of pipe—enough to run a 5K. And at this point, it would take X number of hours to transport the unctuous fluid to its delivery station, which was Olivia's uterus. It in fact seemed like infinity number of hours, all the while with her squirming and complaining of one orgasm after another.