tagLesbian SexThe Queerest Girl I Know

The Queerest Girl I Know


"You're going like that?" I ask when I see Lisa getting up from the vanity table, looking like she's just ready to sit down at it. My pretty femme, all pared down, no glossy lips like wet cherries, none of those messy, artfully tousled curls that make me think of her during sex, riding me and raking her hands through them over and over. No brilliance to her green eyes the way mascara and eyeliner and shimmering black shadow can make, no cheekbones like cliffs lit with pink sunsets.

Her powdered, scented, lightly heaving decolletage: covered by a T-shirt. There are no diamonds collecting like dewdrops in the hollows of her collarbone, no rhinestones dripping off her earlobes. Her nails are still long, shiny red daggers, but only because she had them done a week ago. No peekaboo lingerie; just a flash of plain, white, functional bra strap.

My sex kitten is a bedraggled cat.

I lay the back of my hand flush to her forehead. "Are you ill?" I say, only in half-tease.

In the mirror, we both look a mess. I'm staying home tonight; I have reason to be grungy. I pull her hair out of the ponytail she has it in because it looks so wrong, so unfamiliar. She rifles a hand through it, five red ovals surfacing in the golden sea.

"Maybe I should just cut it all off." She sighs.

"You're not just sick, you're feverish." I love Lisa's hair. Lisa loves Lisa's hair. Pantene would pay money for Lisa to flip her hair and say 'Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.'.

"I could have a pompadour just like you." She says, her eyes catching Elvis' where his photo is tucked into the mirror's frame, my guide for classic handsomeness in a world populated by skinheads and buzzcuts. She shakes her head just slightly, breaking eye contact with the rock 'n' roll legend. "Nobody would mistake me for a straight girl with a duck tail."

"Who mistakes you for a straight girl?" I coo.

The fierceness of her reaction makes me jump. "Everyone. All they see is some regular pretty girl. Even at these socials-" like the one she is going to tonight, these silly bimonthly Sapphic Society get-togethers that I so casually talk my way out of- "the women look at me like I got lost somewhere, like I don't belong."

"They aren't all butch, are they?" I ask, taken aback. Somehow, in my mind I imagine the cocktail parties to be swimming with femmes, while every butch relaxes at home, like me, or else gets nagged and dragged there.

"No." She says with a bitter bite. "There are femmes even higher glam than me. But they still don't treat me like a dyke."

I crouch down on my heels beside her so I don't have to keep talking to her reflection. "Why do you give a shit?" I say, seeking a smile. But I don't get one. I try switching tacks. "Do what I do." I gesture to my jacket, hanging on the coatrack, specifically at the big glossy button with the words I EAT PUSSY emblazoned on a rainbow background.

"If you wear that, nobody will wonder, I guarantee." I say and wink, but all I get in return is a sad smile for all my efforts.

"I just get so tired of people thinking I'm normal." She says.

"Well, you're the only one." I retort, but instead of a catty, the-bitch-is-back, wicked grin, Lisa blinks back tears, wipes them away, and, in a very deliberate, dismissive way, turns to the mirror and starts to put on her lipstick.

I will never understand femmes. They are a mysterious breed, as sensual and foreign as aliens or exotic species at their best, and confusing and frustrating balls of emotion at their worst.


Sometimes, when Lisa has had a little too much to drink, she brings somebody home.

She's had a little to drink tonight.

I watch her now, from the fire escape where I'm relaxing and smoking and having a brandy nightcap. It's more intriguing than anything else, because when she's sober, she's entirely monogamous, waving away my mentions and even suggestions as though its crazy.

She's got herself a big butch- my girl has a type, for sure- short, curly hair and muscled, tattooed arms that rival even my own. Two floors above, I inhale deeply while Lisa pushes the woman up against the brick of our building and kisses her like the quirky top I know her to be. No submissive mouth on that one.

They writhe and grind just a little while they kiss. It's like really good porn, except far better, because this is my reality, butch and femme, not straight silicone femmes lezzing it up for the boys. And because one of the participants is my femme.

Lisa tips back just slightly, then, and falls flat on her butt, shrieking and giggling and showing the whole neighborhood her lacy black underwear.

Let's change that to 'too much to drink tonight', shall we?

When they start to come up, I go inside, for the voyeurism, for the participation, or merely to help my inebriated lover off to bed, should her one-night stand realize her prey is not unattached, and a threesome doesn't appeal. I'm waiting, feeling appropriately sexy in the dark with my glowing cigarette and swirling amber drink, when they come stumbling in.

"Come here," Lisa urges, beckoning me to the sofa where she's spread out her equally drunken new friend. "Come see who I met. She's real butch." I nuzzle her neck and rub myself against her ass while I watch over her shoulder, her delicate hands and sharp nails raking hard up and down that lean torso, feminine worship of all that is macho and butch.

"Mmmm." I moan into her hair.

"Uhhh." She breathes back hotly against my cheek, sliding up and down my front, near enough to drive me insane. Underneath us, our newcomer rocks slightly with eyes closed, savoring the feeling. I don't think she even knows I'm here. When Lisa tugs at her shirt, her arms automatically lift to help facilitate taking off the wife-beater, to reveal her chest.

"Lisa." I whisper. "Lisa . . ."

"She's real flat-chested, huh?" She says as her open palms savor the hard, muscled pecs and taut nipples. "That's okay." She adds on dreamily, even as I reach out my own hand to touch, to feel, to affirm what I think I see but can't quite comprehend.

And I'm right. Those aren't tits. Those aren't tits, because this is not a woman.

Her hands move deftly to the belt, tugging, it open with a clank, ripping zipper down along with underwear to prove my worst suspicions. The man in front of us isn't an FTM, a transsexual like I had thought for the briefest of seconds. The proof is right there in that God-crafted, half-hard cylinder of flesh. And I wait for Lisa to react.

"Ooh, nice strap-on." She gushes. I balk, stop in my tracks. There is no way that those words came out of her mouth. I refuse to believe anybody could be too drunk to notice the difference between a real cock and the dildos we use. Lisa would die of alcohol poisoning before she'd imbibed enough to be that shit-faced.

My fingers clamp on her wrist, lift away the hand that has all the makings of initiating a world-class hand-job. "Lisa, that's a man." I say pointedly, tilting her face close to mine.

Her eyes narrow to slits like she's trying to think hard, appraising, not the man on the couch, but me, instead. Finally, she jerks her wrist out of my hold, sharply, rubbing it like I'd bruised her or clutched too tightly.

"What are you trying to say?" She says, her words getting louder and faster as each spills out of her mouth. "Are you trying to say I'm not queer? She's a butch and I want her." Like a toddler at the emotional high of a tantrum, her face scrunches up like she's fighting crying, still angry, but something else, too. "I'm not straight! I'm queer!"

She starts to furiously pump that cock in a way that looks almost painful, while the guy just stares goggle-eyed at us both. How much he understands through his alcoholic haze, I'm not sure. I watch her, because I don't know what else to do, and I think back to when she was getting ready to leave, of her emotional roller-coaster. She wanted so bad to be queer. So scared to be taken for straight. In my dense head, puzzle pieces start to connect.

I gingerly rub Lisa's back while her head bobs animatedly, motion that still seems like angry defiance for my accusing words. I rub her back and pet her hair until she slows, until she lets go of her death grip on his thighs and moves with natural, liquid elegance. I take deep, calming drags on my cigarette and wonder just how long she's always wanted to do this.

Tomorrow, we'll have to talk. Tomorrow, when it will seem worse because of the hangover because of the alcohol because of the secret desire. Tomorrow, when I give her new words like 'byke'- bisexual dyke. But that's tomorrow.

Tonight is about this. I rub soothing circles on her back and talk. "You're queer, baby. Oh yes, give it to her, suck that rubber cock of hers like it's real, yes." My Lisa, who goes to bimonthly Sapphic Society meetings, who marches every year in the parades, who fights and screams and rages that she's always known she's different, and anyone who wants to push her down can go fuck themselves. My sweet Lisa. How could she ever think she was normal?

I watch this ultra-femme girl give a guy head and assure her, "Oh yes, you are the queerest girl I know."

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