Coming Out: Part Four by Lily Jane Š2015 Lily Jane
It was at least three weeks ago when I posted the last instalment of the story of my liberation (and life-changing transformation from a so-called beautiful straight girl to a really beautiful gay girl), all of which I am really thankful for, except that it had to happen the hard way.
After the dinner by the pool, I never saw Nikki and her British boyfriend again. They left the next day for Montreal, where the gay boyfriend was supposedly producing a movie. (Hold on: why do I make a point of calling him "gay"--even though he obviously was? Especially since I really have to admit that am "gay" too. My guess is that it it's some kind of holdover from my straight past: in school I kind of sneered at gay guys or, at best, felt sorry for them. But you've got to remember, I just came out--not publicly, but to myself--a few days before I met Nikki, and the whole LGBT thing is still a new frontier for me. I assume it takes time.)
Let me just say, I'm writing this new chapter of my story from good old New York City. No, I'm not back in Hell's Kitchen with Eric and the roaches, but I've moved into a brownstone on Lexington, right above an Indian restaurant. I've got a raw brick wall and a window that looks out on a tree (!) and a bunch of big buildings. Totally my own! But how I got here is the subject of this story.
What was really hard for me was the time I spent wasting away in the Beverly Hills Hotel, most of the time--it seemed--with my finger on my clit.
Before we left Vegas, on the last day of that weekend, after the kinky couple went to Canada, Jan got me a teenie yellow mesh bikini so I could soak up the sun down by the pool, the kind of thing you wouldn't dare wear unless you were shaved down there. But it was way too hot to go down to the pool, so we spent the day in our refrigerated room, fucking on the bed (and in the shower).
We were in the shower, with Jan squeezing my lips, when she gave me the news that we were not going straight back to New York, but instead we were going to "bop down to LA for a day or two," to see a couple of her clients. By this point I was really confused about my role in this whole circus and about where this was headed. But it's not like I had anywhere to go back to--Eric had tossed out all my stuff, and no doubt had changed the locks on the flat.
So we got a shuttle to LA, landing at night (what a sight! A fucking endless sea of lights; I kept wondering as I looked out the window, what kind of weird stuff was going on down there. Probably more than you could possibly imagine!).
We were soon back in another five-star hotel, this time on a palm-lined street in Beverly Hills, the kind of place where you would expect to run into Harry Styles and Britney Spears (secretly back together). But this time, our (sumptuous) suite--all done in shades of peach--overlooked the pool instead of San Francisco Bay.
The next day Jan took me shopping. We toured Abbot Kinney in Venice and then wandered up Rose to a little boutique called Lily Ashwell, where Jan got me a bunch of wispy looking little white dresses that made me look like a little girl from the Dust Bowl days, a look that they call hippy chic.
Jan and I made quite a couple, strolling along Rodeo Drive that afternoon, me in my hand-me-down torn white little-nothing dress and Jan swathed in a clingy thing that made her look like a famous French movie star. AND she insisted on holding my hand! (I kept thinking, do I know anyone here in? Is it possible my mom and dad decided to do Rodeo for their vacation? (They come to a dead stop and gasp, "OMG Lily! Is that you?!!!")
This new life isn't easy. But that night we go to Wallflower, a trendy place in Venice, and I meet Olivier, a French fashion photographer, who studies me all through the dinner and then, while we're having dessert, tells me he would like to do a shoot with me at the beach! That would have sounded suspicious, but Olivier is famous and has shot a lot of beautiful (and fully-clothed) women. So, two days later we go to the beach in Santa Monica and I wear several swimsuits that Jan has picked out for me, and Olivier takes something like 200 shots, only a few of which he shows to me. He promised he would delete all the rest and that I wouldn't see them the next day on Instagram.
Then, the very next day, Jan left for Berlin, supposedly to meet with Kurt, her partner in the agency. But, since she had more work to do in LA, meeting with clients, etc, etc, she left me alone in the Four Seasons, promising to return in a couple of days. That was the beginning of my three weeks in captivity, a kind of luxurious house arrest, with me in a luxury room (with free room service), and, as I've already mentioned, a lot of perfect, pretty bodies by the pool, all of them right under my nose.
As much as I hated these sexy girls, they helped me get off a couple of times--without knowing it, of course. But then, when I got bored with that, I decided to fight back. I got out the little yellow mesh bikini Jan got for me in Vegas and took a deep breath and went down to the pool with a bright-colored beach towel. And I picked out a pool chair in full view of the starlets and I lay there on my tummy for a while and then on my back. I basically did everything I could--including slowly slathering myself with sunblock-- to show those hotties that I, too, have a bod--nice round, firm cheeks, "perky" breasts (Jan's word, not mine) and a mound that all but one of the other girls lacked. (My mound, especially since it was all shaved and pink, drove Jan totally crazy, and she loved to knead it in her fist like it was bread dough. After ten minutes or so of this torture, I would be so hot, that I would put my hands under my butt and thrust up my hips to encourage her to go lower. But I have left the track....)
I got really hot down by the pool. And I mean that in both ways the word is understood. Showing myself off for the babes (who probably were so absorbed in themselves that they never noticed me) got me excited, and the sun beating down on my pussy made me need to go back to the room and deal with the problem a lot quicker than I had expected.
The days went on and on, and Jan was still in Berlin, or wherever (I pictured her with some doe-eyed French tart at a little hotel in Saint-Tropez. The little tease--she's got dirty blonde hair and a cute ass--coos that she finds it "trs trs charmant" how Jan fractures her French, and after a romantic French dinner they spend all night cuddling and fucking while I squirm around all alone in this big empty bed in a five star hotel.
You can see I was getting mad, and more than a little crazy. And I was just about to check out and head back to NY when, sometime in the middle of the night, I heard the door open and it's Jan. She was back.
She was toting a couple of big shopping bags from stores in Paris and they were full of presents for me--including racy little pieces of lingerie and saucy skirts and tops, plus chocolates, perfume, and a lot of other peace offerings. And, of course, she was all over me with wet kisses and apologies. "Oh, babe! I missed you so much. I'll never do that again!" etc, etc. You can picture it.
So I let her back into the bed and into my cunt, and all the rest. And by morning we were lovers again. Or so she thought.
My days alone in the hotel (not totally devoted to masturbation. I was also writing a book) had settled some things in my mind. It was great to be loved ("lusted after" is a better term), but I wasn't brought up to be a sex slave. I had to be me, really me, not someone who belonged to someone else.
So, not right away, but maybe five days later, I got up my nerve and told Jan I was leaving, going back to New York. "To do what?" she asked in a haughty kind of way, as if there was nothing in the world I was good at except fucking. But I had no immediate answer to give her, except that I wanted to finish my degree at Hunter and maybe find a way to act or model or to write.
And that's what I did. I came back to New York, where I am now, far from the high life in Vegas and LA, far from the babes at the pool. Even though it's winter here, I'm feeling good about myself. I have, at this point, no idea what I will do. But I know what I don't want. I don't want to be a piece of meat, whether to a guy or a girl. I want to stop being a "sexy young girl with an irresistible bod." I want to be a person of depth, a person with something to say. A person that people will not simply drool over, but will listen to.
I'm here at lilyjane21@sandcat.us (my new email) if you wish to get in touch. And if you want to see my attempt at being serious (and erotic at the same time), check out "The Moonflower Diaries" on Amazon. You can download it to your laptop, smartphone, iPad or Kindle. Whatever you've got. You'll find Jan in there, but mostly you will find out a lot about me. BTW, I put my own name on it, despite the risk that my folks will find it. Did Anais Nin worry about her mother? If you're going to be a writer, you've got to bite the bullet.