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As a former admirer of Shane from The L Word, I was convinced that one-night stands could be uber sexy, almost repercussionless acts of passion with a different but ificantly hot woman every day. I feel I may be ripped off for believing this. You are commenting using your WordPress.
Not the truck driving, spike-y hair, flannel shirt wearing kind. She brushes her teeth unabashedly, watching me in the mirror as she scrubs her teeth, then her tongue. You awake? She noisily sucks air through her teeth and smacks her lips, "Much better. I hear the bathroom door slam shut and a ferocious spray of water splash into the porcelain sink. We lay in silence, the traffic below a soundtrack to my erratic and somewhat erotic thoughts.
Our relationship would morph from casual banter to awkward fumbling. Her sinewy limbs are flung across the seat, her head resting on her right forearm. At that moment, Tim's busy hand leaps from the relatively innocent territory of my calf to the much riskier thigh region.
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Suddenly, she sits up. It's a small, pixie face with limpid eyes. That's all I can find in this degenerate's cupboards! My eyes pop open and I am staring directly into her wide, moss-colored eyes. Clear, tropical ocean, green high beams rimmed with a thick black fringe of lashes. He puts a hand on my leg. Come on. Tim begins rubbing his hand across the back of my leg.
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I glimpse an expansive stretch of luscious, olive-colored skin with delicate shoulder bones protruding like baby bird wings. She rinses and spits, something I can't stand watching my boyfriend do at home, yet I cannot turn away from her hypnotic gaze. I just met the girl and we're already engaged in the intimate dance of drunken friends taking care of each other during a violent session with the porcelain god. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor facing the toilet. I'm Monica.
I engaged in the obligatory drunk girl on girl make-out sessions in college and actually enjoyed both incidents enough to briefly wonder if I was bisexual. A tousled mess, it sticks out crazily in chunky tufts. It takes every ounce of self-control not to kick him squarely in the choppers and bolt from the room.
I came to say hello. And it had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen. She is indeed a sexy lesbian.
She swoons against me and I half-carry her the final few feet. When the heaving finally subsides I wait a moment.
I am nearly asleep when Nicole's bedroom door creaks open. Although that would feel gratifying in the moment it would only complicate the issue by creating sticky long-term problems.
I support most of Nicole's minimal weight as we cross the hall to the bathroom. I moan as if disturbed in the depths of dreamland and keep my eyes squeezed shut. Whatever, Tim was probably just really stoned. After about half an hour of nothing, I take offense.
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They barely acknowledge my departure. Sensing my distress Nicole begins thrashing about on the bed. She raises her head and for the first time looks at me, really looks at me. I close the door and stand outside waiting for her to finish. But since I was raised in a church that regularly tries to counsel homosexuals into being straight and in a home where terms like "rug muncher" and "carpet licker" were casually bandied about by homophobic brothers, I never allowed myself to entertain the notion.
My private one are like a radio knob dialing in different stations. It's dark save for the moonlight creeping around the blinds illuminating a pair of lean, muscular stands twined around a tangled sheet. Maybe a hand on my arm, rubbing my leg with her foot … something. It's Tim. What is he doing? The others are engrossed in a heated debate on which is the better breakfast cereal: Trix or Cocoa Puffs? It's a filmy, girly undershirt with a tiny, pink rosebud in the center of her slight cleavage. Maybe he didn't realize who I was or what he was doing.
Her eye makeup is smudged from sleep in the fashion of magazine models attempting smoky, sex kitten peepers. And smiles. Suddenly, Nicole's hand finds mine underneath the comforter. She raises her eyebrows and I answer with an imperceptible shrug. Her face is cast in shadow. I breathe louder to feign sleep and after a minute risk a lesbian. I place my hand on the back of her tank top.
Now, at two in the morning, alcohol racing through my bloodstream, weed making wicked work of rational thought, the abstract concept of lesbianism was staring me in the face. I set my handful of dry spaghetti noodles on the night, pull my feet from their spot in the kitchen sink and jump to the tiled floor.
Like my old training bra, I think to myself. I feel strange. Their mouths move and I selectively listen, tuning in and out of the conversation.
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I'm having trouble adjusting to my new bedroom. I flush the toilet, startling her. Moonlight shattered by slats from one blinds over the window casts her face in alternating light and dark, like a zebra. As she squeezes toothpaste onto her toothbrush, I caught Nicole sizing me up, perhaps wondering about my motives and sexual inclinations.
Immediately, Tim lesbians his hand from my leg. As I help her stand, moonbeams trickle across her body like water bathing her back in gentle, white light. She staggers to the toilet and immediately begins retching. Two stands of Jagermeister in, my friends Tim, Alexis, and Sasha, are en route to Tim's apartment for an after-party, laughter and marijuana smoke trailing after us, the perfume of partiers. Certainly I'm curious about lesbians.
What is going on? The girls who like girls. Her voice is low and scratchy and sexy in a hoarse-Sheryl-Crow kind of way. Our weight on her bed shifts slightly as someone sits down near our feet. Startled at the sudden turn of events, Tim hovers uncertainly over the bed. I keep waiting for her to try something, anything, foolishly assuming the fact of my gender earned me an attempt at flirtation from night.
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The slight was as stinging as it would have been were I to share the bed with a man who ignored me. A tired, embarrassed grin that she simultaneously manages to make look sweet and sexy. Her door is slightly ajar so I peek inside. She grabs and squeezes.
By the time the t makes its fourth lap around the room he have turned into helium balloons, gigantic, floating parade novelties attached to string necks. Am I not pretty enough I wonder? Her short, chocolate brown hair is punk. But I've only really given the subject consideration after a terrible breakup when women seemed like my only viable option for a happy relationship.
I walk nervously toward Nicole's bedroom.