My Lesbian Girlfriend

She even squirted on me one time, her spate of cum shunting my dong out of her little pussy and spattering my pubis.

"God that was awesome," I told her.

She sat up straight with wild, unfixed eyes, breathing heavily. She called it a euphorgasm.

I kept plowing into her, sweat dripping off my nose.

"Why don't you kiss me, Harry?" she begged. "Why don't you kiss me when you make me come?"

"Oh. That's because of oxytocin," I spouted without breaking stride. "I didn't get to finish explaining that. As soon as a man ejaculates, all his oxytocin goes bye-bye, while a woman's nervous system is flooded with it. Hence the masculine urge to bail, and the woman's to snuggle." I paused to catch my breath. "This isn't always the case, of course. Just generalities. But see what I mean? In spite of Nature—and all Her marvels—it's kind of a design fail."

The undertone of my reply to her question was: Don't kill the messenger. "Why don't you kiss me, Harry, when you make me come?" ...Design fail is not what a woman wants to hear, lesbian or not, whilst she's getting drilled by a raging, amphetamine-fueled boner. As I professed this gobbledygook, jamming as much of my own body into her body like a pneumatic jackhammer, I realized I sounded like a douche. And, seeing her eyes go up and down, watching them close and widen, her chest heaving and tits undulating from my thrusts, I reflected that it wasn't the first time I'd been a douche with Olivia. Like when I brought home a stripper—not from a strip club, but from a bar—and called Olivia at 2 a.m. to come over and see something. The stripper was passed out in my bed. I pointed to her and whispered: Check it out! I was a proud housecat who'd dragged in a headless chipmunk. Maybe I thought she'd get naked and jump in the bed too.

She turned to me: "Look, if we're going to continue doing this"—she pointed to her crotch—"Then you don't need to bring home strippers. Or count me out."

I was flummoxed. "...It's not like she's a... prostitute," I said.

"Or-count-me-out," she repeated.

She was right... Man, what a dick I was.

But that was weeks ago. ...So I'm ruminating on all of this—calculus, fond memories, compartmentalized emotions—while fucking the shit out of her, when I suddenly realized I needed to get to the end of this pipe(laying)dream.

The room was virtually noiseless—even though Interpol droned on the JBLs—and I noticed we were both holding our breaths. With her mouth parted that way, I had to put my tongue in it. She bit down jovially, and this finally was the trigger for me to bust a nut. And when I did, I pulled it out and jacked it tit-ward, watching so much cum come out that I could have stenciled a tic-tac-toe grid on her tummy and drawn a line through the Triple X.

A euphorgasm for sure...

* * * * * * * *

It is October and summer is waning as much as it can in the Hill Country of Texas. Back in June, Olivia confessed to me this: "I love having a muse. The problem with having a muse is that once you catch her, she no longer serves a purpose."

This statement branded an indelible mark on my brain, almost as much as when she asked, "Why don't you kiss me when you make me come, Harry?"

Why not kiss her, when I felt her cum glissade down the shaft of my cock?

Because I didn't want it to become meaningful. Afternoon after afternoon at the Lakeland Grace apartment pool, I watched Olivia playing volleyball with Emman and the other regulars doing her best to keep her boobs from flopping out of her bikini—all the while compartmentalizing her existence—her taxonomy, her soul—detaching myself, and barring her from my own personal Muse Pool.

This is what I told myself. ...There were times—like when we jointly chastised the shit out of our mutual neighbor, Matt, for neglecting his dog—that I felt extremely connected to Olivia. Where we would look at each other with a sense of knowing.

Often I wondered where the lines blurred with regard to romance and sex. What did it matter to Olivia if I brought home a stripper? What did it matter who she disappeared with for two weeks? Did either of us cross a line? And where is the line of demarcation among a couple having no-strings sex who each categorically dismisses their partner as a romantic interest? Who among lovers is exempted from the Muse Pool?

For her birthday, I had a custom sign manufacture a sign that she could hang on her tiny back porch area. Camp Calloway, the sign read. (Because Olivia's last name was Calloway.) She laughed. She liked it.

Sitting there with her, smoking her impeccably rolled joint, I asked, "So who is your muse these days?" An unaccountable part of me was hoping she would suggest it was me. "Who have you been shacking up with?"

"You know Heather, right? Bartender at the pool hall?"

I paused. "I do know Heather," I said. Clenching my jaws, ousting from my noodle that steamy fuck session in the backseat of my Civic when I first arrived here, a stranger in a strange land.

"Well. She's gay too," said Olivia, as unceremoniously as the conductor of a firing squad.

"Ohhh," I said.

Olivia saw right through my expression, like it was made of muslin.

"Did you—?" She gasped. Smiling big with that half-incredulous, half-amused expression of hers. "You did! You porked my future girlfriend!"

"Uhh..." I stammered. "Ok, that happened. Before I met you."

"Dammit you," she said, still amused. "But that makes me kind of hot," she added, and took the joint from my hand, climbing over my lap and undoing my fly.

"I mean, it's not my fault you ladies are pansexual!" I said.

"I don't care," said Olivia. "Just tell me what it was like while you fuck me."

"Promise I will," I said. "It's a story for another day..."

<END>