First Fake Girlfriend
by
Miranda
When old school chums find out that I am now a seasoned dyke they aren't really that surprised. I look the part; short hair, a little stocky, a penchant for wearing ties in an old homage to Diane Keaton. (She, Annie Lennox and I have had a lot of imaginary shower time.) I don't get called sir and guys still hit on me in the city but I imagine that if I crossed the mason-dixon line I'd get called a dyke with a little more vitriol than I am used to.
Now, if you were to believe the content of most online lesbian erotica, you might think that the first intrepid sexual explorations between girls are porn-worthy acrobatic displays of analingus and arm-sized dildos. This is not the case. Even though the idea of two plaid-skirted girls intertwined on a bed and savoring the musk of one another's pussies from a wet fingertip is pretty sexy, it doesn't really happen that way. Not at first, at least. I, personally, don't know any girls who ate a girl out before learning how to drive.
Don't get me wrong, I like munching a little box as much as anybody. I just find it hard to believe any girls that age would consider putting their mouth down there to be erotic. Consider the fact that when these sort of adolescent experiments are likely to begin (12 or 13, at the early heavy onslaught of puberty) us girls are still getting comfortable with the idea of touching ourselves down there despite the passage of urine (girls frequently use pillows or stuffed animals for masturbation, a reflection of such discomfort) when the new factor of musty, rust-speckled blood becomes an issue as well. For me, at thirteen, my vagina seemed more like an intruder upon my body as opposed to a tool of sexual pleasure. I certainly wouldn't associate parting the sticky-wet lips of another girl with my tongue, pubic hair brushing my nostrils, with eroticism.
My first sexual tryst with a girl was at about age twelve or so. Her name was Megan. Megan was this little pixie of girlish sexual innocence - all waifish and ginger haired, milky skin with pink accents along her cheeks and ears, a light spray of freckles in the summertime. She was like a little sprite compared to me, who was clunky and long-limbed with a nest of curly black hair, still getting used to the rapidly swelling tits I had growing. (Beef hormones be damned!)
Megan had gone to elementary school with me but as we entered middle school we parted ways as she entered a private academy and I stayed with the public school system. We still lived close so she became my neighborhood friend, mostly separate from my school friends. She was the most likely candidate for sleepovers and I felt more trust in confiding potentially embarrassing secrets to her as she was not in a position to spread such gossip to the social circles I was surrounded by at school.
Being hormonally ravaged preteens we naturally spoke often of boys, and sex. We did the kissing practice games and even gave little inspections to see the differences in our nipples and navels, puzzling over the peach fuzzy hairs that seemed more noticeable in patches over our bodies. We preened and examined ourselves, tried on each other's clothes and made appropriate judgments.
None of this being sexual, really. It might be difficult to imagine two girls kissing under a fortress of laundry baskets and bed linens to be anything but - but it was all very clinical and friendly.
The first real sexual interaction was late at night on the couch in her living room, watching Cinemax as we spooned beneath an afghan. I forget why we were spooning, but I am thankful that we were.
The movie was some wacky summer camp vehicle for limited T&A - the precursor for your higher production valued American Pie. It was late and we were mostly drifting off under the flicker of this rather silly, poorly-written movie when I felt her thighs ever so gently squeeze my knee. The college kids on television were splashing and skinny dipping in this remote lake. I wasn't even sure if Megan was still awake or not. I shifted myself a bit, my knee just barely pushed between her legs.
She squeezed it again and I, being sleepy and fixing a blurry eye on half-naked people mucking about in a muddy rural pond, pushed my knee back into her.
I knew, somewhat, what I was doing. My masturbating up to that point had consisted of a folded pillow between my legs while I would contract my thigh muscles, making small gentle movements until a warm ticklish feeling in my stomach and vagina waxed to a sparkling, assertive sensation and I would continue that pulse until I fell asleep. I recognized the slight shift of her hips and the tremble of her knees. I wasn't just trying to get comfortable, I was deliberately rubbing myself against her.
I was not, however, clear on whether she was intentionally reacting or not. Who knows the nature of sleep and sexual stimulation at the age of twelve? All I knew was that when her thighs pressed softly around my knobby kneecap, I would ever so slightly shift forward and back with my hips. The only recognition of the act I got from her was a soft vocal sigh, and eventually I drifted to sleep before the credits began to roll.
I figure now that Megan was aware of what was going on that time, because we began to spoon with greater frequency on our sleepovers. Even on the bed, when space was not an issue and we could sprawl out as much as we desired, she would say she was cold and we would spoon each other. I enjoyed it, both on a sexual level and on a comfort level. It's nice to fall asleep with your arms wrapped around a warm, friendly body or with their arms wrapped around you.
And we would covertly grind against each other, legs intertwined and hip bones making little bruises on our waists, never acknowledging the lust generated between us. It was telling that we had stopped practicing kissing or examining our bodies together, as if we were afraid that scientific curiosity would give way to lust.
And this went on, this unspoken sexual relationship, for over a year. And it was not until one night as Megan and I lay together on the bed and chatted, facing each other, when the recognition happened. We were talking about some music video or some teacher and she moved in closer to me and I, on instinct, placed my thigh between her own. It had happened so many times I did it out of habit, no more provocative than getting a coin out of your pocket or putting your foot in a slipper. But we were facing each other, and we were very much awake.
She glanced away and I said, "Oh, sorry." Those two words essentially confessed my knowledge of all our sexual exchanges. She said nothing, but my leg remained. And we started. A gentle squeeze of her knees. I pressed forward. We locked into our rhythm, gentle and covert, embarrassed each time the springs on the bed would squeak.
Megan looked up into my eyes, and I looked back. I was lost in the pale crystalline blue of hers, chemical love swirling around my brain, and I laced my fingers behind her back and pressed into her in a way that was unmistakable, and we stared into each other's eyes with an eerie intensity as I gave her what I can only assume was her first orgasm.
If this was typical lesbian erotica at this point of the story we would give way to passion and end up in a 69, painting each other's faces with fragrant girl fluids.
Instead, we stopped talking to each other.
We found other friends and broke interactions aside from the occasional wave from across the street. I started hanging out with the punk kids, the smokers and the Manic Panic consumers. She joined the freshmen debate club and took advanced classes.
By the time she transferred back into public schools and became a regular fixture of my day, we were on two sides of a fairly large social chasm. I had ruddy tangled hair all frizzed from excessive bleaching, with too much black makeup and a collection of Misfits t-shirts. In my eyes she could have been a nun.
But at the same time I had spent a good deal of time masturbating with the fixed image of her face, flushed and damp with sweat, biting her lower lip as she came. I was seventeen and this girl, this childhood friend, I wanted to fuck.
She had a boyfriend. A tall, handsome boy with zero personality and a lot of pastel collared shirts. Member of the track team. Even though they only held hands and she seemed timid about even that, I felt he (James) was a stone seal on her heterosexuality. Even after they'd broken up I was unsure. Sometimes we would pass each other in the hall and I would seek out those eyes, the eyes I remembered from when we were young, and the eyes of a stranger looked back at me.
Not long after I'd heard the gossip of her relationship quick demise I was out and about in the neighborhood sneaking a cigarette. I found Megan on my trip, hanging listlessly in a swing at a nearby park. I approached, curious.
"You smoke?" She probably knew I did, but maybe just hadn't actually seen me in the act.
"You want one?" I replied, and she shook her head.
I sat on the swing next to her and we didn't talk, just marveled at how different we had both become. I was wearing ratty, torn-up jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with punk band patches adorning the sleeves. She was wearing a long summer dress, matching shoes and bracelets, a faint cast of pastel makeup. All dressed up with no place to go.
"Big date tonight?" I asked her and she shrugged. I waited a minute and added, `Sorry about Jim."
"Thanks." And she smiled in my direction, giving me a little flash of that girl I had known before, the girl I'd spent so many quiet sweaty nights with.
So, in the most assertive, riskiest move I'd ever taken, I kicked off my checkered Converse hi-top (whose laces had long been frayed and discarded) and slipped my foot between her knees and against her inner thigh. And 99% of the time she'd have jumped away or pushed me over, but she was in such a place of mind that she just wanted some of that old innocent comfort, and she squeezed her knees together.
I smiled. It was a mix of sex and nostalgia sweeping over me. I asked her, "Do you want to spend the night?"
And she nodded.
The walk to my house was silent and we didn't touch. But as soon as we were in my bedroom, the turn of the deadbolt transformed it into another universe where laws were broken and guilt did not exist. The click of the lock was a starting gunshot and she turned to me and I was there, wrapping my arms around her and pressing my lips against her own, tasting the cinnamon lip gloss she had on top of the powder pink lipstick, exploring the smoothness of her back with my hands. It was five years of sexual frustration coming out of me, the unspoken sexual trysts I wanted to explore and talk about. I wanted to be vocal and open with her.
I met her eyes and said, "I want to fuck you."
And she tilted her head like the willing victim of a vampire's bite.
So we laid down on my bed and went at each other, a tangle of limbs and lips. I touched her and examined her everywhere, riding my hands up her legs and tickling her stomach, planning kisses down the backs of her legs and along her ass cheeks. She pushed her face into the pillow as I wedged my hand between her stomach and the mattress and bore down until my finger penetrated her predictably wet cunt. Cunt, usually such an abrasive and unappealing word, coming into play when the pussy is all flared and wet and waiting.
I nibbled down her back and hitched up her dress above her waist to examine her panty-clad ass, pale and milky and soft. When I pulled them down with my thumbs and teeth, exposing for a moment the haunting vision of her puckered lily-pink asshole slightly tacky with perspiration, it was a revelation. For the first time ever I longed for the taste of her. I ran my fingertips, wet with her pussy, over my lips and sucked them clean. I placed my hand between my own thighs as I nuzzled into her pussy from behind, my nose resting in the crack of her ass as I ate her out with aimless enthusiasm. She, thinking of Lord knows what with her face buried in a pillow, grinding herself back against me and arching her back like a stroked cat. I was so aroused that I wanted to penetrate that ass, the moist little flower that made me sympathize with hummingbirds. I dabbed it a few times with my tongue during my ministrations but I never fully entered her asshole in the way I lusted for. Too soon, I suppose. C'est la vie.
But to finish, we went by the old standard. I positioned myself beside her and we wrapped our legs like a pretzel and ground ourselves to blistering orgasms, naked and sweaty and kissing with the taste of sweat and lip gloss and pussy all mingling together, a pheromone-heavy sensual overload that left me gasping, `Fuck, fuck, fuck" over and over until I shuddered in her arms.
And that was my "first time" I suppose, a lingering event of foreplay and sexual mystery that trickled its way to climax over the course of five years. We never did it again after that, and when I went off to college we never kept in touch save for the occasional birthday message on MySpace. I suspect she's doing well and being a good straight girl - and I'm just happy to have shared what we did.